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Jll,..  4  '•-'///•■•^■^ 


THE 


SICKNESS  AND  HEALTH 


PEOPLE    OF    BLEABURN. 


BOSTON: 
CROSBY,    NICHOLS,    AND    COMPANY. 

NEW    YORK: 

CHARLES  S  FRANCIS  AND  COMPANY. 

1853. 


Erforcd  accondiiig  to  Aft  of  Oongrcsg,  in  the  vear  18o3,  by 

CR08BT,  Nichols,  and  Company, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  Dij,triit  of  Ma.';i^8cliu>«t  t< 


CAMBRIDGE: 

BTEUEOTVrED   AND   PRINTED   BT 
M  E  T  C  A  K  F     AND     COMPANY 

PUINTEUS   TO   THE   fMVKRSlTY. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


When,  about  three  years  ago,  the  follow- 
ing tale  appeared  in  "  Household  Words," 
relatives  and  friends  in  this  country  did 
not  need  the  familiar  and  endeared  name 
given,  with  questionable  propriety,  to  the 
heroine,  to  tell  them  that  it  was  founded  on 
fact,  and  no  exaggeration  of  a  beautiful 
reality.  Within  a  few  weeks,  —  so  far 
as  a  self-forgetting  humility  made  partial 
disclosures,  even  in  private  letters,  of  a 
remarkable  passage  in  her  experiences,  — 
the  knowledge,  before  confined  almost  en- 
tirely to  her  kindred,  has  been  given  to 
thousands  of  readers,  in  the  Memoir  of  one, 
who,  throughout  her  whole  life,  as  well  as 
a* 


«^2G4aHG 


IV  ADVERTISEMENT. 

during  her  blosscd  and  })cciiliar  minii?tra- 
tioiis  in  a  far-distant,  obscure,  and  disease- 
smitten  village,  deserved  the  title  of  "  The 
Good  Lady."  The  natural  feeling,  there- 
fore, which  heretofore  shrank  from  the  re- 
publication of  the  story,  lest  truth  and  fic- 
tion might  be  confounded,  can  hardly  object 
now  to  its  being  sent  forth  on  a  new  mis- 
sion of  beneficence.  The  slight  anachro- 
nisms can  be  easily  corrected ;  and  though 
the  design  of  the  author,  in  clothing  a 
noble  example  in  an  attractive  garb  for 
the  instruction  of  the  people,  led  to  the  in- 
vention of  incidents  and  the  picturing  of 
imaginary  scenes,  the  veritable  occurrences 
amply  justify  the  fictitious  representations, 
and  make  the  narrative  true  —  in  the  sense 
in  which  it  is  most  important  to  have  it 
true  —  to  the  bright,  energetic,  unselfish, 
religious  character  of  Mary  Pickard.  The 
portrait  is  a  correct  likeness,  if  a  portion  of 
the  scenery  and  figures  of  the  background 
are  the  creation  of  fancy. 

So,  we  trust,  there  are  no  private  reasons 
to  forbid,  even  if  there  would  be  a  natural 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


reluctance  to  assent  to,  the  reappearance,  in 
a  volume  by  itself,  of  "  The  Sickness  and 
Health  of  the  People  of  Bleaburn." 

But,  independent  of  all  reference  to  the 
singular  occurrences  which  suggested  it, 
this  tale  has  merits  of  its  own,  instructive 
and  important  lessons,  which  render  its  wide 
circulation  desirable.  In  a  form  that  will 
invite  and  command  attention,  it  enforces 
duties  to  be  discharged,  portrays  qualities 
of  head  and  heart  to  be  cultivated,  exhibits, 
either  as  warning  or  encouragement,  con- 
duct to  be  avoided  or  imitated,  in  every 
human  life ;  for  it  describes  that  which 
exists  substantially,  and  to  some  extent,  in 
all  communities,  and  may  exist,  in  a  de- 
gree, under  any  roof.  The  evils,  physical 
and  moral,  of  ignorance  and  superstition; 
the  weakness,  selfishness,  perils,  of  panic 
and  fear ;  the  true  use  of  the  discipline  of 
trial ;  the  contrast  between  faithfulness  and 
unfaithfulness  in  the  season  of  temptation ; 
the  manner  in  which  trouble  reveals  the 
good  and  evil  of  the  heart ;  and,  above  all, 
the  effective  influence   of  a  cheerful,  firm, 


Vl  ADVERTISEMENT. 

intelligent,  conscientious,  rational  piety,  ad- 
hering trustfully  to  the  plain  command- 
ment of  duty,  and  going  quietly,  but  stead- 
fastly, about  its  work  of  mercy, —  are  pre- 
sented with  a  graphic  simplicity  and  truth- 
fulness. No  one  can  read  it  without  being 
made  better,  by  getting  from  it  some  hints 
at  least  of  the  preparation  of  head  and 
heart  for  those  scenes  of  poverty,  suiTering, 
or  sickness,  which  enter  into  our  human 
lot,  and  cannot  always  be  escaped.  How- 
to  inspire  courage  in  the  desponding  and 
despairing  ;  how  to  deal  wdth  blind  preju- 
dices ;  how  to  cheer  and  nurse  the  sick ;  how 
to  change  selfish  terror  into  helpful  sympa- 
thy ;  how  to  reprove  by  example  the  cow- 
ardice that  attracts  the  very  evil  it  would 
avoid ;  how  to  accept  humbly  and  confid- 
ingly the  hardest  tasks  Providence  calls 
upon  us  to  fulfil,  and  by  so  doing  find 
seemingly  insurmountable  diiTiculties  fade 
away  as  the  morning  mist  before  the  sun, 
—  these  are  some  of  the  lessons  which  will 
steal  into  the  bosoms,  and  leave  their  im- 
press on  the  souls,  even  of  those  who  take 


ADVERTISEMENT  Vli 

up  this  little  book  merely  for  amusement. 
And  certainly  this  would  be  a  sufficient 
recommendation,  were  it  entirely,  as  to  a 
considerable  extent  it  is,  imaginary,  as  to 
the  representative  persons  and  incidents. 

Still  we  cannot  and  would  not  dissociate 
the  story  from  the  actual  experience  which 
suggested  it;  for  its  republication  may  ac- 
complish a  greater  good  than  simply  in- 
creasing the  circulation  and  usefulness  of 
an  instructive  tale.  Those  who  read  it 
will,  we  trust,  desire  to  know  more  of  the 
spirit  of  one,  whose  Christian  fidelity  and 
benevolence  are  so  vividly  represented,  and 
be  led  to  seek  her  Memoir ;  thus  they  will 
learn,  that  in  respect  to  high  principles, 
generous  sympathies,  gentle  affections,  un- 
swerving fidelity  to  conscience,  and  trust- 
iul  faith,  the  months  spent  in  serving  the 
destitute,  ignorant,  and  suffering,  in  the 
daily  presence  of  disease  and  death,  with- 
out a  thought  of  praise  or  reward,  were 
after  all  no  strange  episode  in  her  life,  but 
only  one  manifestation,  made  prominent  by 
circumstance,   of   a  character  always   and 


Vlll  ADVERTISEMENT. 

everywhere,  in  prosperity  and  in  sorrow, 
in  health  and  in  sickness,  even  to  the  last 
hours  spent  on  earth,  harmonious,  true,  and 
beautiful,  —  Christian. 

Boston,  Jamuiry  21,  1853. 


SICKNESS  AND  HEALTH 


PEOPLE    OF    BLEABUHN 


CHAPTER  I. 


It  was  not  often  that  any  thing  happened 
to  enliven  the  village  of  Bleaburn,  in  York- 
shire :  but  there  was  a  day  in  the  summer 
of  1811,  when  the  inhabitants  were  roused 
from  their  apathy,  and  hardly  knew  them- 
selves. A  stranger  was  once  heard  to  say, 
after  some  accident  had  compelled  him  to 
pass  through  Bleaburn,  that  he  saw  nothing 
there  but  a  blacksmith  asleep,  and  a  couple 
of  rabbits  hung  up  by  the  heels.  That  the 
blacksmith  was  wholly  asleep  at  midday 
might  indicate  that  there  was  a  public 
house  in  the  place  ;  but,  even  there,  in  that 
liveliest  and  most  intellectual  spot  in  a 
country  village  of  those  days,  —  the  ale- 
house kitchen,  —  the  people  sat  half  asleep. 
Sodden  with  beer,  and  almost  without  ideas 
1 


U  SICKNESS    AND   HEALTH    OF 

and  interests,  the  men  of  the  place  let  indo- 
lence creep  over  them  ;  and  there  they  sat, 
as  quiet  a  set  of  customers  as  ever  landlord 
had  to  deal  with.  For  one  thing,  they 
were  almost  all  old  or  elderly  men.  The 
boys  were  out  after  the  rabbits  on  the 
neighboring  moor  ;  and  the  young  men 
were  far  away.  A  recruiting  party  had 
met  with  unusual  success,  for  two  succes- 
sive years  (now  some  time  since),  in  in- 
ducing the  men  of  Bleaburn  to  enter  the 
king's  service.  In  a  place  where  nobody 
was  very  wise,  and  every  body  was  very 
dull,  the  drum  and  fife,  the  soldierly  march, 
the  scarlet  coats,  the  gay  ribbons,  the  drink 
and  the  pay,  had  charms  which  can  hardly 
be  conceived  of  by  dwellers  in  towns,  to 
whose  eyes  and  ears  something  new  is  pre- 
sented every  day.  Several  men  went  from 
Bleaburn  to  be  soldiers,  and  Bleaburn  was 
declared  to  be  a  loyal  place  ;  and  many 
who  had  never  before  heard  of  its  existence, 
spoke  of  it  now  as  a  bright  example  of  at- 
tachment and  devotion  to  the  throne  in  a 
most  disloyal  age.     While,  throughout  the 


THE    PEOPLE    OF    BLEABURN.  3 

manufacturing  districts,  the  people  were 
breaking  machinery,  —  while  on  these  very 
Yorkshire  hills  they  were  drilling  their 
armed  forces,  —  while  the  moneyed  men 
were  grumbling  at  the  taxes,  and  at  the 
war  in  Spain,  whence,  for  a  long  time,  they 
had  heard  of  many  disasters  and  no  victo- 
ries ;  and  while  the  hungry  laborers  in  town 
and  country  were  asking  how  they  were  to 
buy  bread  when  wheat  was  selling  at  95^. 
the  quarter,  and  while  there  were  grave  ap- 
prehensions of  night-burnings  of  the  corn 
magazines,  the  village  of  Bleaburn,  which 
could  not  be  seen  without  being  expressly 
sought,  was  sending  up  strong  men  out  of 
its  cleft  of  the  hills,  to  fight  .the  battles  of 
their  country. 

Perhaps  the  chief  reason  of  the  loyalty, 
as  well  as  the  quietness  of  Bleaburn,  was 
its  lying  in  a  cleft  of  the  hills  ;  in  a  fissure 
so  deep  and  narrow,  that  a  traveller  in  a 
chaise  might  easily  pass  near  it  without 
perceiving  that  there  was  any  settlement 
at  all,  unless  it  was  in  the  morning  when 
the  people  were  lighting  their  fires,  or  on 


4  SICKNESS    AND    HEALTH    OF 

the  nifi^ht  of  such  a  day  as  that  on  ^vhich 
our  story  opens.  In  the  one  case,  the 
smoke  issuing  from  the  cleft  might  hint  of 
habitations ;  in  the  other,  the  noise  and 
ruddy  light  would  leave  no  doubt  of  there 
being  somebody  there.  There  was,  at  last, 
a  victory  in  Spain.  The  news  of  the  battle 
of  Albuera  had  arrived  ;  and  it  spread 
abroad  over  the  kingdom,  lighting  up  bon- 
fires in  the  streets,  and  millions  of  candles 
in  windows,  before  people  had  time  to 
learn  at  what  cost  this  victory  was  obtained, 
and  how  very  nearly  it  had  been  a  fatal 
defeat,  or  any  thing  about  it,  in  short.  If 
they  had  known  the  fact  that  while  our 
allies,  the  Spaniards,  Portuguese,  and  Ger- 
mans, suffered  but  moderately,  the  British 
were  slaughtered  as  horribly  as  they  could 
have  been  under  defeat :  so  that,  out  of  six 
thousand  men  who  went  up  the  hill,  only 
fifteen  hundred  were  left  standing  at  the 
top,  the  people  might  have  let  their  bonfires 
burn  out  as  soon  as  they  would,  and  might 
have  put  out  their  candles  that  mourners 
might  weep  in  darkness.     But  they  burst 


THE    PEOPLE    OF    BLEABURN.  5 

into  rejoicing  first,  and  learned  details  after- 
wards. 

Every  boy  in  Bleaburn  forgot  the  rabbits 
that  day.     All  were  busy  getting  in  wood 
for  the   bonfire.     Not  a  swinging  shutter, 
not  a  loose    pale,   not   a   bit  of  plank,   or 
rickety  gate,  or  shaking  footbridge,  escaped 
their  clutches.     Where  they  hid  theit  stock 
during  the   day,  nobody  knew;  but  there 
was  a  mighty  pile  at  dusk.     It  was  then 
that  poor  Widow  Slaney,  stealing  out  to 
close   her    shutter,  because  she   could   not 
bear  the  sound  of  rejoicing,  nor  the  sight  of 
her  neighbors  abroad  in  the  ruddy  light, 
found  that  her  shutter  was  gone.     All  day 
she  had  been  in  the  loft,  lest  she  should  see 
any  body  ;  for  the  clergyman  had  been  to 
tell  her  that  her  son  Harry  had  been ,  shot 
as  a  deserter.     She  had  refused  to  believe 
it  at  first ;  but  Mr.  Finch  had  explained  to 
her  that  the  soldiers  in  Spain  had  suffered 
so  cruelly  from  hunger,  and  want  of  shoes 
and    of  every  comfort,  that    hundreds    of 
them  had   gone  into  the  towns  to   avoid 
starvation  ;  and  then,  when  the  towns  were 


6  SICKNESS    AND    HEALTH    OF 

taken  by  the  allies,  such  British  soldiers  as 
were  found,  and  were  declared  to  have  no 
business  there,  were  treated  as  deserters, 
for  an  exam])le.  It  was  some  comfort  that 
Mr.  Finch  did  not  think  that  Harry  had 
done  any  thing  very  wicked  ;  but  Mrs. 
Slancy  could  not  meet  any  one,  nor  bear 
the  flaring  light  on  her  ceiling;  so  she 
went  up  to  the  loft  again,  and  cried  all 
night  in  the  dark.  Farmer  Neale  was  the 
wonder  of  the  place  this  evening.  He  was 
more  gracious  than  any  body,  though  there 
was  nobody  who  was  not,  at  all  times, 
afraid  of  him.  When  he  was  seen  striding 
down  the  steep  narrow  street,  the  little  boys 
hid  themselves.  They  had  not  been  able 
to  resist  altogether  the  temptation  of  dry 
thorns  in  his  fences,  and  of  the  chips  which 
had  still  lain  about  where  his  winter  felling 
had  been  done,  and  they  concluded  he  was 
come  now  to  give  them  a  rough  handling: 
but  they  found  themselves  mistaken.  He 
was  in  high  good-humor,  sending  such 
boys  as  he  could  catch  with  orders  upon 
his  people  at  home  for  a  tar-barrel  and  a 
whole  load  of  faggots. 


THE    PEOPLE    OF    BLEABURN.  7 

"'Tis  hardly  natural,  though,  is  it?" 
said  Mrs.  Billiter  to  Ann  Warrender.  "  It 
does  not  seem  natural  for  any  father  to  re- 
joice in  a  victory  when  his  own  son  has 
lost  his  best  leg  there." 

"  Has  Jack  Neale  lost  his  leg?  O,  what 
a  thing  I "  exclaimed  Ann  Warrender.  She 
was  ^oing  on,  but  she  perceived  that  the 
farmer  had  heard  her. 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  without  any  sound  of 
heart-pain  in  his  voice.  "  Jack  has  lost  his 
right  leg,  Mr.  Finch  tells  me.  And  I  tell 
Mr.  Finch,  it  is  almost  a  pity  the  other  did 
not  go  after  it.  He  deserved  no  more  good 
of  either  of  them  when  he  had  let  them 
do  such  a  thing  as  carry  him  off  from  his 
home  and  his  duty." 

"  How  can  you,  Mr.  Neale  ?  "  burst  out 
both  the  women. 

"  How  can  I  do  what,  my  dears  ?  One 
thing  I  can  do ;  and  that  is,  see  when  an 
undutiful  son  is  properly  punished.  He 
must  live  on  his  pension,  however  :  he  can 
be  of  no  use  to  me  now ;  and  I  can't  be 
burdened  with  a  cripple  at  home." 


8  SICKNESS    AND    IIKALTII    OF 

"  I  don't  think  lie  will  ask  you,"  Mrs. 
Billiter  said.  "  He  was  none  so  happy 
there  before  as  to  want  to  come  again." 

Ann  Warrender  told  this  speech  to  her 
father,  afterwards,  as  the  severest  she  had 
ever  heard  from  Mrs.  Billiter;  and  they 
agreed  that  it  was  very  bold,  considering 
that  Billiter  was  one  of  Farmer  Neale's 
laborers.  But  they  also  agreed  that  it  was 
enough  to  stir  up  liesh  and  blood  to  see  a 
man  made  hearty  and  good-humored  by 
misfortune  having  befallen  a  son  who  had 
offended  him.  After  all,  poor  Jack  Neale 
had  run  away  only  because  he  could  not 
bear  his  father's  tyranny.  Two  more  of 
the  Bleaburn  recruits  had  suffered,  —  had 
been  killed  outright ;  one  a  widower,  who, 
in  his  first  grief,  had  left  his  babes  with 
their  grandmother,  and  gone  to  the  wars ; 
and  the  other  an  ignorant  lout,  who  had 
been  entrapped  because  he  was  tall  and 
strong ;  had  been  fuddled  with  beer,  flat- 
tered with  talk  of  finery,  and  carried  off 
before  he  could  recover  his  slow  wits.  He 
was  gone,  and  would  soon  be  forgotten. 


THE    PEOPLE    OF    BLEABURN.  \) 

"  I  say,  Jem,"  said  Farmer  Neale,  when 
he  met  the  village  idiot,  Jem  Johnson, 
shulhing  along  the  street,  staring  at  the 
lights  :  "  you  're  the  wise  man,  after  all  : 
you  're  the  best  off,  my  man." 

Widow  Johnson,  who  was  just  behind, 
put  her  arm  in  poor  Jem's,  and  tried  to 
make  him  move  on.  She  was  a  stern 
woman ;  but  she  was  as  much  disgusted 
at  Farmer  Neale's  hardness  as  her  tender- 
hearted daughter,  Mrs.  Billiter,  or  any  one 
else. 

"  Good-day,  Mrs.  Johnson,"  said  Neale. 
"  You  are  better  off  for  a  son  than  I  am, 
after  all.  Yours  is  not  such  a  fool  as  to  go 
and  get  his  leg  shot  off,  like  my  precious 
son." 

Mrs.  Johnson  looked  him  hard  in  the 
face,  as  she  would  a  madman  or  a  drunken 
man  whom  she  meant  to  intimidate  ;  and 
compelled  her  son  to  pass  on.  In  truth, 
Farmer  Neale  was  drunk  with  evil  pas- 
sions ;  in  such  high  spirits,  that,  when  he 
found  that  the  women  —  mothers  of  sons 
—  would  have  nothing  to  say  to   him  to- 


10  SICKNESS    AND   HEALTH    OF 

f 

day,  he  went  to  the  pubHc-house,  where  he 
was  pretty  sure  of  being  humored  by  the 
men  who  depended  on  his  employment  for 
bread,  and  on  his  temper  for  much  of  the 
peace  of  their  lives. 

On  his  way  he  met  the  clergyman,  and 
proposed  to  him  to  make  a  merry  evening 
of  it.  "  If  you  will  just  step  in  at  the 
Plough  and  Harrow,  Sir,"  said  he,  "  and 
tell  us  all  you  have  heard  about  the  victory, 
it  will  be  the  finest  thing, — just  what  the 
men  want.  And  we  will  drink  your  health, 
and  the  King's,  and  Marshal  Beresford's, 
who  won  the  victory.  It  is  a  fine  occasion, 
Sir ;  an  occasion  to  confirm  the  loyalty  of 
the  people.  You  will  come  with  me. 
Sir  ?  " 

"  No,"  replied  Mr.  Finch,  "  I  have  to  go 
among  another  sort  of  people,  Neale.  If 
you  have  spirits  to  make  merry  to-night,  I 
own  to  you  I  have  not.  Victories  that 
cost  so  much,  do  not  make  me  very  merry." 

"  O,  fie,  Mr.  Finch  I  How  are  we  to 
keep  up  our  character  for  loyalty,  if  you 
fail  us,  —  if  you  put  on  a  black  face  in  the 
hour  of  rejoicing  ?  " 


THE    PEOPLE    OF    BLEABURN.  11 

"  Just  come  with  me,"  said  Mr.  Finch, 
"  and  I  can  show  you  cause  enough  for 
heaviness  of  heart.  In  our  small  village, 
there  is  mourning  in  many  houses.  Three 
of  our  late  neighbors  are  dead,  and  one  of 
them  in  such  a  way  as  will  break  his 
mother's  heart." 

"  And  another  has  lost  a  leg,  you  are 
thinking.  Out  with  it,  Sir,  and  don't  be 
afraid  of  my  feelings  about  it.  Well,  it  is 
certain  that  Bleaburn  has  suffered  more 
than  is  the  fair  share  of  one  place  ;  but  we 
must  be  loyal." 

"  And  so,"  said  Mr.  Finch,  "  you  are  go- 
ing to  prepare  more  of  your  neighbors  to 
enlist,  the  next  time  a  recruiting  party 
comes  this  way.  O,  I  don't  say  that  men 
are  not  to  be  encouraged  to  serve  their 
king  and  country :  but  it  seems  to  me  that 
our  place  has  done  its  duty  well  enough 
for  the  present.  I  wonder  that  you,  as  a 
farmer,  do  not  consider  the  rates,  and  dread 
the  consequences  of  having  the  women 
and  children  on  our  hands,  if  our  able  men 
get   killed   and   maimed   in   the   wars.     I 


12  SICKNESS    AND    HEALTH    OF 

should  have  thought  that  the  price  of 
bread—" 

"  Tliere,  now,  don't  let  us  talk  about 
that!"  said  Neale.  "  You  know  that  is  a 
subject  that  we  never  agree  about*  We 
will  let  alone  the  price  of  bread  for  to-day." 

Neale  might  easily  forget  this  sore  sub- 
ject, and  every  other  that  was  disagreeable 
to  other  people,  in  the  jollity  at  the  Plough 
and  Harrow,  where  there  was  an  uproar  of 
tipsy  mirth  for  the  greater  part  of  the  night. 
But  Mr.  Finch  found  little  mirth  among 
the  people  left  at  home  in  the  cottages. 
The  poor  women,  who  lived  hardly,  knit- 
ting for  eighteen  hours  out  of  the  twenty- 
four,  and  finding  themselves  less  and  less 
able  to  overtake  the  advancing  prices  of 
the  necessaries  of  life,  had  no  gi-eat  store  of 
spirits  to  spend  in  rejoicing  over  victories, 
or  any  tiling  else  ;  and  among  them  there 
was  one  who  loved  Jack  Neale,  and  was 
beloved  by  him  ;  and  others,  who  res^pected 
Widow  Slaney,  and  could  not  countenance 
noisy  mirth  while  she  was  sunk  in  horror 
and  grief.     They  were  hungry  enough,  too, 


THE    PEOPLE    OF    BLEABUKN.  13 

to  look  upon  young  Slaney's  death  as 
something  o\  an  outrage.  If  hunger  and 
nakedness  had  driven  him  into  the  shelter 
of  a  town,  to  avoid  dying  by  the  roadside, 
it  seemed  to  them  that  being  shot  was  a 
hard  punishment  for  the  offence.  Mr.  Finch 
endeavored  to  show,  in  hackneyed  language, 
what  the  dereliction  of  duty  really  was,  and 
how  intolerable  during  warfare ;  but  the 
end  of  it  was  that  the  neighbors  pitied  the 
poor  young  man  the  more,  the  more  they 
dwelt  upon  his  fate. 

As  it  turned  out,  Bleaburn  made  more 
sacrifices  to  the  war  than  those  of  the  bat- 
tle of  Albuera,  even  before  drum  or  fife  was 
again  heard  coming  over  the  moor.  The 
place  had  not  been  healthy  before  ;  and  ill- 
ness set  in  somewhat  seriously  after  the 
excitements  of  the  bonfire  night.  The  cold 
and  wet  spring  had  discouraged  the  whole 
kingdom  about  the  harvest;  and  in  Blea- 
burn it  had  done  something  more.  Where 
there  are  stone  houses,  high  winds  aggra- 
vate the  damage  of  wet  weather.  The 
driven   rain    had   been   sucked   in   by  the 


14  SICKNESS    AND    HEALTH    OF 

stone  ;  and  more  wet  was  absorbed  from 
the  foundations,  when  the  swollen  stream 
had  rushed  down  the  hollow,  and  over- 
flowed into  the  houses,  and  the  pigsties, 
and  every  empty  place  into  which  it  could 
run.  Where  there  were  glass  windows 
and  fires  in  the  rooms,  the  panes  were 
dewy,  and  the  walls  shiny  with  trickling 
drops ;  and  in  the  cottages  where  there 
were  no  fires,  the  inhabitants  were  so  chilly, 
that  they  stuffed  up  every  broken  window- 
pane,  and  closed  all  chinks  by  which  air 
might  enter,  in  hopes  of  keeping  themselves 
warm  ;  but  the  floors  were  never  really  dry 
that  summer,  and  even  the  beds  had  a 
chilly  feeh  The  best  shoes  showed  mould 
between  one  Sunday  and  another ;  and 
the  meal  in  the  bin  (of  those  who  were  so 
fortunate  as  to  have  a  meal-bin)  did  not 
keep  well.  Mr.  Finch  had  talked  a  great 
deal  about  what  was  to  be  expected  from 
summer  weather  and  the  harvest ;  but  as 
the  weeks  went  on,  there  were  graver 
doubts  about  the  harvest  than  there  had 
been  even  while  people  were  complaining 


THE    PEOPLE    OF    BLEABURN.  15 

at  Easter,  and  shaking  their  heads  at  Whit- 
suntide ;  and  when  a  few  days  of  hot 
weather  came  at  last,  the  people  of  Blea- 
burn  did  not  know  how  to  bear  them  at  all. 
The  dead  rats  and  decaying  matter  which 
had  been  deposited  by  the  spring  overflow 
made  such  a  stench,  that  people  shut  their 
windows  closer  than  ever.  Their  choice 
now  was  between  being  broiled  in  the  heat 
which  was  reflected  from  the  sides  of  the 
cleft  in  which  they  lived,  and  being  shut 
into  houses  where  the  w^alls,  floors,  and 
windows  were  reeking  with  steam.  The 
women,  who  sat  still  all  day,  knitting,  had 
little  chance  for  health  in  such  abodes  ;  and 
still  less  had  such  of  the  men  as,  already 
weakened  by  low  diet,  had  surfeited  them- 
selves with  beer  on  the  night  of  the  rejoicing, 
and  broiled  themselves  in  the  heat  of  the 
bonfire,  and  fevered  mind  and  body  with 
shouting  and  singing  and  brawling,  and 
been  brought  home  to  be  laid  upon  musty 
straw,  under  a  somewhat  damp  blanket. 
This  excess  was  hardly  more  pernicious  to 
some  than  depression  was  to  others.    Those 


16  SICKNESS    AND    HEALTH    OF 

of  tlic  ])cople  at  Bleaburn  that  had  received 
lieart-wonnds  froin  the  battle  of  Albuera, 
thought  they  could  never  care  again  for 
any  personal  troubles  or  privations ;  but 
they  were  not  long  in  learning  that  they 
now  suilered  more  than  before  from  low 
diet  and  every  sort  of  discomfort.  They 
blamed  themselves  for  being  selfish  ;  but 
this  self-blame  again  made  the  matter 
worse.  They  had  lost  a  hope  which  had 
kept  them  up.  They  were  not  only  in 
grief,  but  thoroughly  discouraged.  Their 
gloom  was  increased  by  seeing  that  a 
chancre  had  come  over  Mr.  Finch.  On 
Sundays  he  looked  so  anxious,  that  it  was 
enough  to  lower  people's  spirits  to  go  to 
church.  His  very  voice  was  dismal,  as  he 
read  the  service ;  his  sermon  grew  shorter 
almost  every  Sunday  :  and  it  was  about 
every  thing  that  the  people  cared  least 
about.  He  gave  them  discussions  of  doc- 
trine, or  dry  moral  essays,  which  were  as 
stones  to  them  when  they  wanted  the  bread 
of  consolation  and  the  wine  of  hoj^o.  Here 
and   tlicrc,  women   said  it  really  was  too 


THE    PEOPLE    OF    BLEABURN.  17 

much  for  their  spirits  to  go  to  church, 
and  they  staid  away  ;  and  the  boys  and 
girls  took  the  opportunity  to  go  spying 
upon  the  rabbits.  It  was  such  boys  and 
girls  that  gave  news  of  Mr.  Finch  during 
the  week.  Every  morning,  he  was  so  busy 
over  his  books  in  his  study,  that  it  was  no 
easy  matter  to  get  a  sight  of  him ;  and 
every  fine  afternoon  he  went  quietly,  by  a 
by-path,  to  a  certain  spot  on  the  moor, 
where   an    ostler  from  the  Cross   Keys  at 

O was  awaiting  him  with  the  horse  on 

which  he  took  long  rides  over  the  hills. 
Mr.  Finch  was  taking  care  of  his  health. 


18  SICKNESS    AND    HEALTH    OF 


CHAPTER   II. 


"  Can  I  have  a  chaise  ? "  inquired  a 
young  lady,  on  being  set  down  by  the 
coach  at  the  Cross  Keys,  at  O . 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  certainly,"  replied  the  neat 
landlady. 

"  How  far  do  you  call  it  to  Bleaburn  ?  " 

"  To  Bleaburn,  ma'am  I  It  is  six  miles. 
But,  ma'am,  you  arc  not  going  to  Bleaburn, 
surely." 

«  Indeed  I  am.     Why  not  ?  " 

"  Because  of  the  fever,  ma'am.  There 
never  was  any  thing  heard  of  like  it.  You 
cannot  go  there,  I  assure  you,  ma'am,  and 
I  could  not  think  of  sending  a  chaise  there. 
Neither  of  my  postboys  would  go." 

"  One  of  them  shall  take  me  as  near  as  is 
safe,  then.     I  dare  say  we  shall  fmd  some- 


THE    PEOPLE    OF    BLEABURN.  19 

body  who  will  take  care  of  my  little  trunk 
till  I  can  send  for  it." 

"  The  cordon  would  take  care  of  your 
trunk,  if  that  were  all,  but — " 

"  The  what  ?  "  interrupted  the  young 
lady. 

"  The  cordon,  they  call  it,  ma'am.  To 
preserve  ourselves,  we  have  set  people  to 
watch  on  the  moor  above,  to  prevent  any 
body  from  Bleaburn  coming  among  us,  to 
spread  the  fever.  Ma'am,  it  is  worse  than 
any  thing  you  ever  heard  of." 

"  Not  worse  than  the  plague,"  thought 
Mary  Pickard,  in  whose  mind  now  rose  up 
all  she  had  read  and  heard  of  the  horrors  of 
the  great  plague,  and  all  the  longing  she 
had  felt  when  a  child  to  have  been  a  clergy- 
man at  such  a  time,  or  at  least  a  physician, 
to  give  comfort  to  numbers  in  their  ex- 
tremity. 

"  Indeed,  ma'am,"  resumed  the  landlady, 
"you  cannot  go  there.  By  what  I  hear, 
there  are  very  few  now  that  are  not  dead, 
or  down  in  the  fever." 

"  Then  they  will  want  me  the  more," 


20  SICKNESS    AND    HEALTH    OF 

said  iMary  Pickard.  "  I  must  go  and  see 
my  aunt.  I  wrote  to  her  that  I  should  go ; 
and  she  may  want  me  more  than  I  thought." 

"  Have  you  an  aunt  living  at  Bleaburn  ?  " 
asked  the  landlady,  in  some  surprise.  "  I 
did  not  know  that  there  was  any  lady  living 
at  Bleaburn.  I  thought  they  had  been  all 
poor  people  there." 

"  I  believe  my  aunt  is  poor,"  said  Mary. 
"  I  have  heard  nothing  of  her  for  several 
years,  except  merely  that  she  was  living  at 
Bleaburn.  She  had  the  education  of  a  gen- 
tlewoman ;  but  I  believe  her  husband  be- 
came a  common  laborer  before  he  died.  1 
am  from  America,  and  my  name  is  JNIary 
Pickard,  and  my  aunt's  name  is  Johnson; 
and  I  shall  be  glad  if  you  can  tell  me  any 
thing  about  her,  if  this  fever  is  really  raging 
as  you  say.  I  must  see  her  before  I  go 
home  to  America." 

"  You  see,  ma'am,  if  you  go,"  said  the 
landlady,  contemplating  the  little  trunk, 
"you  will  not  be  able  to  come  away  again 
while  the  fever  lasts." 

"  And  you  think  I  shall  not  have  clothes 


THE    PEOPLE    OF    BLEABURN.  21 

enough,"  said  Mary,  smiling.  "  I  packed 
my  box  for  a  week  only,  but  I  dare  say  I 
can  manage.  If  every  body  was  ill,  I  could 
wash  my  clothes  myself.  I  have  done  such 
a  thing  with  less  reason.  Or,  I  could  send 
to  London  for  more.  I  suppose  one  can 
get  at  a  post-office.-' 

"  Through  the  cordon,  I  dare  say  you 
might,  ma'am.  But,  really,  I  don't  know 
that  there  is  any  body  at  Bleaburn  that  can 
write  a  letter,  except  the  clergyman  and  the 
doctor  and  one  or  two  more." 

"  My  aunt  can,"  said  Mary,  "  and  it  is 
because  she  does  not  answer  our  letters, 
that  I  am  so  anxious  to  see  her.  You  did 
not  tell  me  whether  you  know  her  name, 
—  Johnson." 

"  A  widow,  I  think  you  said,  ma'am." 
And  the  landlady  called  to  the  ostler  to  ask 
him  if  he  knew  any  thing  of  a  Widow 
Johnson,  who  lived  at  Bleaburn.  Will  Ost- 
ler said  there  was  a  woman  of  that  name 
who  was  the  mother  of  Silly  Jem.  "  Might 
that  be  she  ?  "  Mary  had  never  heard  of 
Silly  Jem ;  but  when  she  found  that  Wid- 


^ZZ  SICKNESS    AND    HEALTH    OF 

o\v  Johnson  had  a  daughter,  some  years 
married,  that  she  had  white  hair,  and  strong 
black  eyes,  and  a  strong  face  altogether, 
and  that  she  seldom  spoke,  she  had  little 
doubt  that  one  so  like  certain  of  her  rela- 
tions was  her  aunt.  The  end  of  it  was, 
that  Mary  went  to  Bleaburn.  She  ordered 
the  chaise  herself,  leaving  it  to  the  land- 
lady to  direct  the  postboy  where  to  set  her 
down ;  she  appealed  to  the  w^oman's  good 
feelings  to  aid  her  if  she  should  iind  that 
wine,  linen,  or  other  comforts  were  neces- 
sary at  Bleaburn,  and  she  could  not  be  al- 
lowed to  come  and  buy  tiieni ;  explained 
that  she  was  far  from  rich,  and  told  the  ex- 
act sum  which  she  at  present  believed  she 
should  be  justified  in  spending  on  behalf  of 
the  sick  ;  and  gave  a  reference  to  a  commer- 
cial house  in  London.  She  did  not  tell  — 
and  indeed  she  gave  only  a  momentary 
thought  to  it  herself — that  the  sum  of 
money  she  had  mentioned  was  that  which 
she  had  saved  up  to  take  her  to  Scotland, 
to  see  some  friends  of  her  family,  and  travel 
through  the  Highlands.    As  she  was  driven 


THE    PEOPLE    OF    BLEABURN.  23 

off  from  the  gateway  of  the  Cross  Keys, 
nodding  and  smiling  from  the  chaise-win- 
dow in  turning  the  corner,  the  landlady 
ceased  from  commanding  the  postboy  on 
no  account  to  go  beyond  the  brow,  and 
said  to  herself  that  this  Miss  Pickard  was 
the  most  wilful  young  lady  she  had  ever 
known,  but  that  she  could  not  help  liking 
her,  too.  She  did  not  seem  to  value  her 
life  any  more  than  a  pin;  and  yet  she 
appeared  altogether  cheerful  and  sensible. 
If  the  £:ood  woman  had  been  able  to  see 
into  Mary's  heart,  she  would  have  discov- 
ered that  she  had  the  best  reason  in  the 
world  for  valuing  life  very  much  indeed : 
but  she  had  been  so  accustomed,  all  her 
life,  to  help  every  body  that  needed  it,  that 
she  naturally  went  straight  forward  into  the 
business,  without  looking  at  difficulties  or 
dangers,  on  the  right  hand  or  the  left. 

Mary  never,  while  she  lived,  forgot  this 
drive.  Her  tone  of  mind  was,  no  doubt, 
high,  though  she  was  unconscious  of  it.  It 
was  a  splendid  August  evening,  and  she 
had  never  before  seen  moorland.    In  Amer- 


24  SICKNESS    AND    HEALTH    OF 

ica,  slie  had  travelled  among  noble  inland 
forests,  and  a  hard  granite  region  near  the 
coasts  of  New  England;  but  the  wide- 
spreading  brown  and  green  moorland,  with 
its  pools  of  clear  brown  water  glittering  in 
the  evening  sunshine,  and  its  black-cocks 
popping  out  of  the  heather,  and  running 
into  the  hollows,  was  quite  new  to  her. 
She  looked  down,  two  or  three  times,  into 
a  wooded  dell  where  gray  cottages  were 
scattered  among  the  coppices,  and  a  little 
church-tower  rose  above  them ;  but  the 
swellins:  rida:es  of  the  moor,  with  the  tarns 
between,  immediately  attracted  her  eye 
again. 

"  Surely,"  thought  she,  "  the  cordon  will 
let  me  walk  on  the  moor  in  the  afternoons, 
if  I  go  where  I  cannot  infect  any  body. 
With  a  walk  in  such  places  as  these  every 
day,  I  am  sure  I  could  go  through  any 
thing." 

This  seemed  very  rational  beforehand. 
It  never  entered  Mary's  head,  that,  for  a 
long  time  to  come,  she  should  never  once 
have  leisure  for  a  walk. 


THE    PEOPLE    OF    BLEABURN.  25 

"  Yon  's  the  cordon,"  said  the  postboy, 
at  last,  pointing  with  his  whip. 

"  What  do  you  understand  by  a  cordon?" 

"  Them  people  that  you  may  see  there. 
I  don't  know  why  they  call  them  so ;  for  I 
don't  hear  that  they  do  any  thing  with  a 
cord." 

"  Perhaps  it  is  because  there  is  a  French 
word  —  cordon  —  that  means  any  thing 
that  incloses  any  other  thing.  They  would 
call  your  hat-band  a  cordon,  and  an  offi- 
cer's sash,  and  a  belt  of  trees  round  a  park. 
So,  I  suppose  these  people  surround  poor 
Bleaburn  and  let  nobody  out." 

"  May  be  so,"  said  the  man,  "  but  I  don't 
see  why  we  should  go  to  the  French  for 
our  words  or  any  thing  else,  when  we  have 
every  thing  better  of  our  own.  For  my 
part,  I  shall  be  beholden  to  the  French  for 
no  word,  now  I  know  of  it.  I  shall  call 
thorn  people  the  watch,  or  something  of 
that  like." 

"  I  think  I  will  call  them  messengers," 
said  Mary ;  "  and  that  will  sound  less  ter- 
rible to  the  people  below.     They  do  go  on 


26 


SICKNESS    AND    HEALTH    OF 


errands,  do  not  they,  —  and  take  and  send 
parcels  and  messages  ?  " 

"  They  are  paid  to  do  it,  Miss  but  thev 
put  it  upon  one  another,  or  get  out  of  the 
way,  if  they  can, —  they  are  so  afraid  of 
the  fever,  you  see.  —  I  think  we  must  stop 
here,  please,  Miss.  I  could  go  a  little 
nearer,  only,  you  see  —  " 

"  I  see  that  you  are  afraid  of  the  fever 
too,"  said  Mary,  with  a  smile,  as  she 
jumped  out  upon  the  grass.  One  of  the 
sentinels  was  within  hail.  Glad  of  the 
relief  from  the  dulness  of  his  watch,  he 
came  with  alacrity,  took  charge  of  the  lit- 
tle trunk,  and  offered  to  show  the  lady, 
from  the  brow,  the  way  down  the  hollow 
to  the  village. 

The  postboy  stood,  with  his  money  in 
his  hand,  watching  the  retreating  lady,  till, 
under  a  sudden  impulse,  he  hailed  her. 
Looking  round,  she  saw  him  running  jto- 
wards  her,  casting  a  momentary  glance 
back  at  his  horses.     He  wanted  to  try  once 

more  to  persuade  her  to  return  to  O 

He  should  be  so  happy  to  drive  her  back, 


& 


THE    PEOPLE    OF    BLEABURN.  27 

out  of  the  way  of  danger.  His  employer 
would  be  so  glad  to  see  her  again !  When 
he  perceived  that  it  was  no  use  talking,  he 
went  on  touching  his  hat,  while  he  begged 
her  to  take  back  the  shilling  she  had  just 
civen  hirn.  It  would  make  his  mind  easi- 
er,  he  said,  not  to  take  money  for  bringing 
any  lady  to  such  a  place.  Mary  saw  that 
this  was  true ;  and  she  took  back  the  shil- 
ling, promising  that  it  should  be  spent  in 
the  service  of  some  poor  sick  person. 

As  Mary  descended  into  the  hollow,  she 
was  struck  with  the  quiet  beauty  of  the 
scene.  The  last  sun-blaze  rushed  level 
along  the  upper  part  of  the  cleft,  while  the 
lower  part  lay  in  deep  shadow.  While  she 
was  descending  a  steep  slope,  with  some- 
times grass  and  sometimes  gray  rock  by 
the  roadside,  the  opposite  height  rose  pre- 
cipitous;  and  from  chinks  in  its  brow  lit- 
tle drips  of  water  fell  or  oozed  down,  call- 
ing into  life  ferns,  and  grass,  and  ivy,  in 
every  moist  crevice.  Near  the  top  there 
were  rows  of  swallow-holes ;  and  the  birds 
were  at  this  moment  all  at  play  in  the  last 


28  SICKNESS    AND    HEALTH    OF 

glow  of  the  summer  day,  now  dipping  into 
the  shaded  dell,  down  to  the  very  surface 
of  the  water,  and  then  sprinkling  the  gray 
precipice  with  their  darting  shadows.  Be- 
low, when  Mary  reached  the  bridge,  she 
thought  all  looked  shadowy  in  more  senses 
than  one.  The  first  people  she  saw  were 
some  children,  excessively  dirty,  who  were 
paddling  about  in  a  shallow  pool,  which 
was  now  none  of  the  sweetest,  having  been 
filled  by  the  spring  overflow,  and  gradually 
drying  up  ever  since.  Mary  called  to  these 
children  from  the  bridge,  to  ask  where 
Widow  Johnson  lived.  She  could  learn 
nothing  more  than  that  she  must  proceed; 
for,  if  the  creatures  had  not  been  almost 
too  boorish  to  speak,  she  could  have  made 
nothing  of  the  Yorkshire  dialect,  on  the 
first  encounter.  In  the  narrow  street,  every 
window  seemed  closed,  and  even  the  shut- 
ters of  some.  She  could  see  nobody  in  the 
first  two  or  three  shops  that  she  passed; 
but  at  the  baker's  a  woman  was  sitting  at 
work.  On  the  entrance  of  a  stranger,  she 
looked   up   in   surprise;    and   when    at  the 


THE    PEOPLE    OF    BLEABURN.  29 

door,  to  point  out  the  turn  down  to  Widow- 
Johnson's,  she  remained  there,  with  her 
work  on  her  arm,  to  watch  the  lady  up  the 
street.  The  doctor,  quickening  his  pace, 
came  up,  saying, — 

"  Who  was  that  you  were  speaking  to  ? 
— A  lady  wanting  Widow  Johnson  !  What 
a  very  extraordinary  thing !  Did  you  tell- 
her  the  fever  had  got  there  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Sir." 

"  What  did  she  say  ?  " 

"  She  said  she  must  go  and  nurse  them." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  she  is  going  to  stay 
here?" 

"  I  suppose  so,  by  her  talking  of  nursing 
them.  She  says  Widow  Johnson  is  her 
aunt." 

«  O,  that 's  it !  I  have  heard  that  Mrs. 
Johnson  came  of  a  good  family.  But  what 
a  good  creature  this  must  be,  —  that  is,  if 
she  knows  what  she  is  about.  If  she  is  off 
before  morning,  I  shall  think  it  was  a  vis- 
ion, dropped  down  out  of  the  clouds.    Eh  ?  " 

"  She  is  not  handsome  enough  to  be  an 
angel,  or  any  thing  of  that  kind,"  said  the 
baker's  wife. 


30  SICKNESS    AND    HEALTH    OF 

"  O,  is  n't  slu*  ?  I  did  not  see  her  face. 
But  it  is  all  the  better  if  she  is  not  very 
like  an  angel.  She  is  all  the  more  likely 
to  stay  and  nurse  the  Johnsons.  Upon 
my  word,  they  are  lueky  people  if  she  does. 
I  must  go  and  pay  my  respects  to  her  pres- 
ently.—  Do  look,  now,  at  the  doors  all 
along  the  street,  on  both  sides  of  the  way ! 
I  have  not  seen  so  many  people  at  once  for 
weeks  past;  —  for,  you  know,  I  have  no 
time  to  go  to  church  in  these  days." 

"  You  would  not  see  many  people  if  you 
went.  See  I  some  of  the  children  are  fol- 
lowing her!  It  is  long  since  they  have 
seen  a  young  lady,  in  a  white  gown,  and 
with  a  smile  ou  her  face,  in  our  street. 
There  she  goes,  past  the  corner;  she  has 
taken  the  right  turn.'* 

"  I  will  just  let  her  get  the  meeting  over, 
and  settle  herself  a  little,"  said  the  doctor ; 
"  and  then  I  will  go  and  pay  my  respects 
to  her." 

The  little  rabble  of  dirty  children  fol- 
lowed Mary  round  the  corner,  keeping  in 
the   middle   of  the  lane  and  at  some  dis- 


THE    TEOPLE    OF    BLEABURN.  31 

tance  behind.  When  she  turned  to  speak 
to  them,  they  started  and  fled,  as  they 
might  have  done  if  she  had  been  a  ghost. 
But  when  she  laughed,  they  returned  cau- 
tiously; and  all  their  brown  forefingers 
pointed  the  same  way  at  once,  when  she 
made  her  final  inquiry  about  which  was 
the  cottage  she  wanted.  Two  little  boys 
were  pushed  forward  by  the  rest;  and  it 
transpired  that  these  were  grandchildren 
of  Widow  Johnson. 

«  Is  she  your  granny  ? "  said  Mary. 
« Then  I  am  your  cousin.  Come  with 
me ;  and  if  granny  is  very  much  surprised 
to  see  me,  you  must  tell  her  that  I  am 
your  cousin  Mary." 

The  boys,  however,  had  no  notion  of 
entering  the  cottage.  They  slipped  away, 
and  hid  themselves  behind  it;  and  Mary 
had  to  introduce  herself. 

After  knocking  in  vain  for  some  time, 
she  opened  the  door  and  looked  in.  No 
one  was  in  the  room  but  a  man,  whom  she 
at  once  recognized  for  Silly  Jem.  He  was 
half-standing,  half-sitting,  against  the  table 


32  SICKNESS    AND    HEALTH    OF 

by  the  wall,  rolling  his  head  from  side  to 
side.  By  no  mode  of  questioning  could 
Mary  obtain  a  word  from  him.  The  only 
thing  he  did  was  to  throw  a  great  log  of 
wood  on  the  fire,  when  she  observed  what 
a  large  fire  he  had.  She  tried  to  take  it 
off  again ;  but  this  he  would  not  permit. 
The  room  was  insufferably  hot  and  close. 
The  only  window  was  beside  the  door ;  so 
that  there  was  no  way  of  bringing  a  cur- 
rent of  fresh  air  through  the  room.  Mary 
tried  to  open  the  window ;  but  it  was  not 
made  to  open,  except  that  a  small  pane  at 
the  top,  three  inches  square,  went  upon 
hinges.  As  soon  as  Mary  had  opened  it, 
however,  poor  Jem  went  and  shut  it.  With- 
in this  kitchen  was  a  sort  of  closet  for 
stores ;  and  this  was  the  whole  of  the  low- 
er floor.  Mary  opened  one  other  door,  and 
found  within  it  a  steep,  narrow  stair,  down 
which  came  a  sickening  putf  of  hot,  foul 
air.  She  went  up  softly,  and  Jem  slammed 
the  door  behind  her.  It  seemed  as  if  it 
was  the  business  of  his  life  to  shut  every 
thing. 


THE    PEOPLE    OF    BLEABURN.  33 

Groping  her  way,  Mary  came  to  a  small 
chamber,  which  she  surveyed  for  an  instant 
from  the  stair,  before  showing  herself  with- 
in. There  was  no  ceiling ;  and  long  cob- 
webs hung  from  the  rafters.  A  small  win- 
dow, two  feet  from  the  floor,  and  curtained 
with  a  yellow  and  tattered  piece  of  muslin, 
was  the  only  break  in  the  wall.  On  the 
deal  table  stood  a  phial  or  two,  and  a 
green  bottle,  which  was  presently  found  to 
contain  rum.  A  turn-up  bedstead,  raised 
only  a  foot  from  the  floor,  was  in  a  corner ; 
and  on  it  lay  some  one  who  was  very  rest- 
less, feebly  throwing  off"  the  rug,  which  was 
immediately  replaced  by  a  sleepy  woman 
who  dozed  between  times  in  a  chair  that 
boasted  a  patchwork  cushion.  Mary  doubt- 
ed whether  the  large  black  eyes  which 
stared  forth  from  the  pillow  had  any  sense 
in  them.     She  went  to  see. 

"  Aunty,"  said  she,  going  to  the  bed, 
and  gently  taking  one  of  the  wasted  hands 
that  lay  outside.  "  I  am  come  to  nurse 
you." 

The  poor  patient  made  a  strong  effort  to 

3 


34  SICKNESS    AND    IIKALTH    OF 

collect  herself  and  to  speak.  She  did  not 
want  any  body.  She  sliould  do  very  well. 
This  was  no  place  for  strangers.  She  was 
too  ill  to  see  strangers,  and  so  on  ;  but, 
from  time  to  time,  a  few  wandering  words 
about  her  knowing  best  how  to  choose  a 
husband  for  herself,  —  her  having  a  right 
to  marry  as  she  pleased,  —  or  of  insisting 
that  her  relations  would  go  their  own  way 
in  the  world,  and  leave  her  hers,  —  showed 
Mary  that  she  was  recognized,  and  what 
feelings  she  had  to  deal  with. 

"  She  knows  where  I  came  from  ;  but 
she  takes  me  for  my  mother  or  my  grand- 
mother," thought  sh^.  "  If  she  grows  clear 
in  mind,  we  shall  be  friends  on  our  own 
account.  If  she  remains  delirious,  she  will 
become  used  to  the  sight  of  me.  I  must 
take  matters  into  my  own  hands  at  once." 

The  first  step  was  difficult.  Coolness 
and  fresh  air  were  wanted  above  every 
thing.  But  there  was  no  chimney;  the 
window  would  not  open ;  poor  Jem  would 
not  let  any  door  remain  open  for  a  mo- 
ment; and  the  sleepy  neighbor  was  one  of 


THE    PEOPLE    OF    BLEABITRN.  35 

those  who  insist  npon  warm  bed-clothes, 
large  fires,  and  hot  spirit  and  water,  in  fever 
cases.  She  was  got  rid  of  by  being  paid 
to  find  somebody  who  would  go  for  Mary's 
trunk,  and  bring  it  here  before  dark.  She 
did  her  best  to  administer  another  dose  of 
rum  before  she  tied  on  her  bonnet;  but  as 
the  patient  turned  away  her  head  with  dis- 
gust, Mary  interposed  her  hand.  The  dram 
was  offered  to  her,  and,  as  she  would  not 
have  it,  the  neighbor  showed  the  only  cour- 
tesy then  possible,  by  drinking  Mary's  health, 
and  welcome  to  Bleaburn.  The  woman  had 
some  sharpness.  She  could  see  that  if  she 
took  Jem  with  her,  and  put  the  trunk  on 
his  shoulder,  she  should  get  the  porter's  fee 
herself,  instead  of  giving  it  to  some  rude 
boy ;  and,  as  Mary  observed,  would  be  do- 
ing a  kindness  to  Jem  in  taking  him  for  a 
pleasant  evening  walk.  Thus  the  coast 
was  cleared.  In  little  more  than  half  an 
hour  they  would  be  back.  Mary  made  the 
most  of  her  time. 

She  set  the  doors  below  wide  open,  and 
lowered  the  fire.     She  would  fain  have  put 


36  SICKNESS    AND    HEALTH    OF 

on  some  water  to  boil,  for  it  appeared  to 
her  that  every  body  and  every  thing  want- 
ed washing  extremely.  But  she  could  find 
no  water  but  some  which  seemed  to  have 
been  used, — which  was,  at  all  events,  not 
fit  for  use  now.  For  water  she  must  wait 
till  somebody  came.  About  air,  she  did 
one  thing  more,  —  a  daring  thing.  She 
had  a  little  diamond  ring  on  her  finger. 
With  this,  without  noise  and  quickly,  she 
cut  so  much  of  two  small  panes  of  the 
chamber  window  as  to  be  able  to  take 
them  clean  out;  and  then  she  rubbed  the 
neighboring  panes  bright  enough  to  hide, 
as  she  hoped,  an  act  which  would  be 
thought  mad.  When  she  looked  round 
again  at  Aunty,  she  could  fancy  that  there 
was  a  somewhat  clearer  look  about  the 
worn  face,  and  a  little  less  dulness  in  the 
eye.  But  this  might  be  because  she  her- 
self felt  less  sick  now  that  fresh  air  was 
breathing  up  the  stairs. 

There  was  something  else  upon  the 
stairs,  —  the  tread  of  some  one  coming  up. 
It  was  the   doctor.     He   said   he   came   to 


THE    TEOPLE    OF    BLEABURN.  37 

pay  his  respects  to  the  lady  before  him,  as 
well  as  to  visit  his  patient.  It  was  no  sea- 
son for  losing  time,  and  doctor  and  nurse 
found  in  a  minute  that  they  should  agree 
very  well  about  the  treatment  of  the  pa- 
tient. Animated  by  finding  that  he  should 
no  longer  be  wholly  alone  in  his  terrible 
wrestle  with  disease  and  death,  the  doctor 
did  things  which  he  could  not  have  be- 
lieved he  should  have  courage  for.  He 
even  emptied  out  the  rum-bottle  and  hurled 
it  away  into  the  bed  of  the  stream.  The 
last  thing  he  did  was  to  turn  up  his  cuffs, 
and  actually  bring  in  two  pails  of  water 
with  his  own  hands.  He  promised  (and 
kept  his  promise)  to  send  his  boy  with  a 
supply  of  vinegar,  and  a  message  to  the 
neighbor  that  she  was  wanted  elsewhere, 
that  Mary  might  have  liberty  to  refresh  the 
patient,  without  being  subject  to  the  charge 
of  murdering  her.  "  A  charge,  however," 
said  he,  "  which  I  fully  expect  will  be 
brought  against  any  one  of  us  who  knows 
how  to  nur^e.  I  confess  they  have  cowed 
me.     In  sheer  despair,  I  have  let  them  take 


38  SICKNESS    AND    HEALTH    OF 

their  own  way  pretty  much.     But  now  we 
must  see  what  can  be  done." 

*'  Yes,"  said  Mary.  "  It  is  fairly  our 
turn  now.  We  must  try  how  we  can  cow 
the  fever." 


THE    PEOrLE    OF    BLEABURN.  39 


CHAPTER    III 


Mr.  Finch  was  standing  in  front  of  his 
bookcase,  deeply  occupied  in  ascertaining 
a  point  in  ecclesiastical  history,  when  he 
was  told  that  Ann  Warrender  wished  to 
speak  to  him. 

"  O  dear ! "  he  half-breathed  out.  He 
had  for  some  time  been  growing  nervous 
about  the  state  of  things  at  Bleaburn  ;  and 
there  was  nothing  he  now  liked  so  little  as 
to  be  obliged  to  speak  face  to  face  with 
any  of  the  people.  It  was  not  all  coward- 
ice ;  though  cowardice  made  up  sadly  too 
much  of  it.  He  did  not  very  well  know 
how  to  address  the  minds  of  his  people; 
and  he  felt  that  he  could  not  do  it  well. 
He  was  more  fit  for  closet  study  than  for 
the  duties  of  a  parish  priest ;  and  he  ought 


40  SICKNESS    AND   HEALTH    OF 

never  to  have  been  sent  to  Bleaburn.  Here 
he  was,  however;  and  there  was  Ann  War- 
render  waiting  in  the  passage  to  speak  to 
him. 

"  Dear  me ! "  said  he,  "  I  am  really  very 
busy  at  this  moment.  Ask  Ann  Warren- 
der  if  she  can  come  again  to-morrow." 

To-morrow  would  not  do.  Ann  followed 
the  servant  to  the  door  of  the  study  to  say 
so.  Mr.  Finch  hastily  asked  her  to  wait  a 
moment,  and  shut  the  door  behind  the  ser- 
vant. He  unlocked  a  cupboard,  took  out  a 
green  bottle  and  a  wineglass,  and  fortified 
himself  against  infection  with  a  draught  of 
something  whose  scent  betrayed  him  to  Ann 
the  moment  the  door  was  again  opened. 

"  Come  in,"  said  he,  when  the  cupboard 
was  locked. 

"  Will  you  please  come.  Sir,  and  see 
John  Billiter  ?  He  is  not  far  from  death; 
he  asked  for  you  just  now;  so  I  said  I 
would  step  for  you." 

"  Billiter!  The  fever  lias  been  very  fatal 
in  that  house,  has  it  not?  Did  not  he  lose 
two  children  last  week?  " 


THE    PEOrLE    OF    BLEABURN.  41 

"  Yes,  Six;  and  my  father  thinks  the  other 
two  are  beghiiiing  to  sicken.  I  'nm  sure  T 
don't  know  what  will  become  of  them.  I 
saw  Mrs.  BiUiter  stagger  as  she  crossed 
the  room  just  now ;  and  she  does  not  seem, 
somehow,  to  be  altogether  like  herself  this 
morning.  That  looks  as  if  she  were  begin- 
ning. But  if  you  will  come  and  pray  with 
them,  Sir,  that  is  the  comfort  they  say  they 
want." 

"  Does  your  father  allow  you  to  go  to  an 
infected  house  like  that  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Fi/ich. 
"  And  does  he  go  himself?  " 

Ann  looked  sm'prised,  and  said  she  did 
not  see  what  else  could  be  done.  There 
was  no  one  but  her  father  who  could  lift 
John  Billiter,  or  turn  him  in  his  bed ;  and 
as  for  her,  she  was  the  only  one  that  Mrs. 
Billiter  had  to  look  to,  day  and  night.  The 
Good  Lady  went  in  very  often,  and  did  all 
she  could ;  but  she  was  wanted  in  so  many 
places,  besides  having  her  hands  full  with 
the  Johnsons,  that  she  could  only  come  in 
and  direct  and  cheer  them,  every  few  hours. 
She  desired  to  be  sent  for  at  any  time,  night 


42  SICKNESS    AND    HEALTH    OF 

or  day ;  and  they  did  send  when  they  were 
particularly  distressed,  or  at  a  loss;  but  for 
regular  watc'liing  and  nursing,  Ann  said  the 
Billiters  had  no  one  to  depend  on  but  her- 
self. She  could  not  stay  talking  now, 
however.  How  soon  might  she  say  that 
Mr.  Finch  would  come  ? 

Mr.  Finch  was  now  walking  up  and 
down  the  room.  He  said  he  would  con- 
sider and  let  her  know  as  soon  as  he  could. 

"John  Billiter  is  as  bad  as  can  be,  Sir. 
He  must  be  very  near  his  end." 

"  Ah !  well,  you  shall  hear  from  me  very 
soon." 

As  Ann  went  away,  she  wondered  what 
could  be  the  impediment  to  Mr.  Finch's 
going  with  her.  He,  meantime,  roused  his 
mind  to  undertake  a  great  argument  of 
duty.  It  was  with  a  sense  of  complacency, 
even  of  elevation,  that  he  now  set  himself 
to  work  to  consider  of  his  duty,  —  deter- 
mined to  do  it  when  his  mind  was  made  up. 

He  afterwards  declared  that  he  went  to 
his  chamber  to  be  secure  against  interrup- 
tion, and  there  walked  up  and  down  for 


THE    PEOPLE    OF    BLEABURN.  43 

two  hours  in  meditation  and  prayer.     He 
considered  that  it  had  pleased  God  that  he 
should  be  the  only  son  of  his  mother,  whose 
whole  life  would  be  desolate  if  he  should 
die.      He  thought  of  Ellen   Price,  feeling 
almost   sure   that   she   would    marry   him 
whenever  he  felt  justified  in   asking  her; 
and  he  considered  what  a  life  of  happiness 
she  would  lose  if  he  should  die.     He  re- 
membered that  his  praying  with   the  sick 
would  not  affect  life  on  the  one  side,  while 
it   might   on   the    other.      The   longer   he 
thought  .of  Ellen  Price  and  of  his  mother, 
and  of  all  that  he  might  do  if  he  lived,  the 
more  clear  did  his  duty  seem  to  himself  to 
become.     At  the  end  of  the  two  hours,  he 
was  obliged  to  bring  his  meditations  to  a 
conclusion ;    for    Ann    Warrender's   father 
had  been  waiting  for  some  time  to  speak 
to  him,  and  w^ould  then  wait  no  longer. 

"  It  is  not  time  lost,  Warrender,"  said 
Mr.  Finch,  when  at  last  he  came  down 
stairs.  "  I  have  been  determining  my  prin- 
ciple, and  my  mind  is  made  up." 

"  Then,  Sir,  let  us  be  off,  or  the  man  will 


4t  SICKNESS    AND    HEALTH    OF 

be  dead.  What!  you  cannot  come,  Sir! 
Why,  bless  my  soul  I  " 

"  You  see  my  reasons,  surely,  Warren- 
der." 

"  Why,  yes ;  such  as  they  are.  The  thing 
that  I  can't  see  the  reason  for,  is  your  being 
a  clergyman." 

While  Mr.  Finch  was  giving  forth  his 
amiable  and  gentlemanly  notions  of  the 
position  of  a  clergyman  in  society,  and  of 
filial  consideration,  Warrender  was  twirling 
his  hat,  and  fidgeting,  as  if  in  haste ;  and 
his  summing  up  was,  — 

"  I  don't  know  what  your  mother  herself 
might  say,  Sir,  to  your  consideration  for 
her;  but  most  likely  she  has,  being  a  moth- 
er, noticed  that  saying  about  a  man  leaving 
father  and  mother,  and  houses  and  lands, 

for  Christ's  sake ;  and  also But  it  is 

no  business  of  rnine  to  be  preaching  to  the 
clergyman,  and  I  have  enough  to  do,  else- 
where." 

"  One  thing  more,  Warrender.  I  intrust 
it  to  you  to  let  the  people  know  that  there 
will  be  no  service  in  church  durini!:  the  in- 


THE    PEOPLE    OF    BLEABURN.  45 

fection.  Why,  do  not  you  know  that,  in 
the  time  of  the  plague,  the  churches  were 
closed  by  ordei*,  because  it  was  found  that 
the  people  gave  one  another  the  disease,  by 
meeting  there  ?  " 

John  had  never  heard  it;  and  he  was  sor- 
ry to  hear  it  now.  He  hastened  away  to 
the  Good  Lady,  to  ask  her  if  he  must  really 
tell  the  afflicted  people  that  all  religious 
comfort  must  be  withheld  from  them  now, 
when  they  were  in  the  utmost  need  of  it. 
Meantime,  Mr.  Finch  was  entering  at 
length  in  his  diary,  the  history  of  his  con- 
flict of  mind,  his  decision,  and  the  reasons 
of  it. 

Henceforth,  Mr.  Finch  had  less  time  for 
his  diary,  and  for  clearing  up  points  of  ec- 
clesiastical history.  There  were  so  many 
funerals  that  he  could  never  be  sure  of  leis- 
ure ;  nor,  when  he  had  it,  was  he  in  a  state 
to  use  it.  Sometimes  he  almost  doubted 
whether  he  was  in  his  right  mind,  so  over- 
whelmingly dreadful  to  him  was  the  scene 
around  him.  He  met  Farmer  Neale  one 
day.     Neale  was  at  his  wit's  end  what  to 


46  SICKNESS    AND    HEALTH    OF 

do  about  his  harvest.  Several  of  his  labor- 
ers were  dead,  and  others  were  kept  aloof 
by  his  own  servants,  whd  declared  they 
would  all  leave  him  if  any  person  from 
Bleaburn  was  brought  among  them  ;  and 
no  laborers  from  a  distance  would  come 
near  the  place.  Farmer  Neale  saw  no 
other  prospect  than  of  his  crops  rotting  on 
the  ground. 

"  You  must  offer  high  wages,"  said  Mr. 
Finch.  "  You  must  be  well  aware  that 
you  do  not  generally  tempt  people  into 
your  service  by  your  rate  of  wages.  You 
must  open  your  hand  at  such  a  time  as 
this." 

Neale  was  ready  enough  now  to  give 
good  wages;  but  nobody  would  reap  an 
acre  of  his  for  love  or  money.  He  was  told 
to  be  thankful  that  the  fever  had  spared 
his  house  ;  but  he  said  it  was  no  use  bid- 
ding a  man  be  thankful  for  any  thing,  while 
he  saw  his  crops  perishing  on  the  ground. 

Next,  Mr.  Finch  saw,  in  his  afternoon 
ride,  a  waiicMi-load  of  colTms  arrive  at  the 
brow    from    O .       He    saw    them   sent 


THE    PEOPLE    OF    BLEABURN.  47 

down,  one  by  one,  on  men's  shoulders,  to 
be  ranged  in  the  carpenter's  yard.  The 
carpenter  could  not  work  fast  enough  ;  and 
his  stock  of  wood  was  so  nearly  exhausted, 
that  there  had  been  complaints,  within  the 
last  few  days,  that  the  coffins  would  not 
bear  the  least  shock,  but  fell  to  pieces  when 
the  grave  was  opened  for  the  next.  So  an 
order  was  sent  to  O for  coffins  of  vari- 
ous sizes  ;  and  now  they  were  carried  down 
the  road,  and  up  the  street,  before  the  eyes 
of  some  who  were  to  inhabit  one  or  an- 
other of  them.  The  doctor,  hurrying  from 
house  to  house,  had  hardly  a  moment  to 
spare,  and  no  comfort  to  give.  He  did  not 
see  what  there  was  to  prevent  the  whole 
population  from  being  swept  away.  He 
was  himself  almost  worn  out;  and  just  at 
such  a  moment  his  surgery  boy  had  disap- 
peared. He  had  no  one  that  he  could  de- 
pend on  to  help  him  in  making  up  the 
medicines,  or  even  to  deliver  them.  The 
fact  was,  he  said  in  private,  the  place  was 
a  pest-house ;  and,  except  to  Miss  Pickard, 
he  did  not  know  where  to  look  for  any  aid 


48  SICKNESS    AND    HEALTH    OF 

or  any  hope  whatever.  It  would  not  do  to 
say  so  to  the  people ;  but,  frankly  speaking, 
this  was  what  he  felt.  When  the  pastor's 
heart  was  thus  sunk  very  low,  he  thought 
he  would  just  pass  the  Plough  and  Har- 
row, and  see  who  was  there.  If  there  were 
any  cheerful  people  in  Bleaburn,  that  was 
where  they  would  be  found.  At  the  Plough 
and  Harrow,  the  floor  was  swept  and  the 
table  was  clean  ;  and  the  chimney  was  pret- 
tily dressed  with  greeu  boughs ;  but  there 
were  only  two  customers  there  ;  and  they 
were  smoking  their  pipes  in  silence.  The 
landlord  said  the  scores  w^ere  run  up  so 
high,  he  could  not  give  more  credit  till  bet- 
ter days.  The  people  wanted  their  draught 
of  comfort  badly  enough,  and  he  had  given 
it  as  long  as  he  could ;  but  he  must  stop 
somewhere :  and  if  the  baker  had  to  stop 
scores  (as  he  knew  he  had)  the  publican 
had  little  chance  of  getting  his  own.  At 
such  a  time,  however,  he  knew  men  ought 
to  be  liberal;  so  he  went  on  serving  purl 
and  bitters  at  five  in  the  morning.  The 
men    said  it  strengthened   their   stomachs 


THE    PEOPLE    OF    BLEABURN.  49 

against  the  fever  before  they  went  to  work 
(such  of  them  as  could  work),  and  God  for- 
bid he  should  refuse  them  that!  But  he 
knew  the  half  of  those  few  that  came  at 
five  in  the  morning  would  never  be  able  to 
pay  their  score.  Yet  did  the  publican, 
amidst  all  these  losses,  invite  the  pastor  to 
sit  down  and  have  a  cheerful  glass;  and 
the  pastor  did  not  refuse.  There  was  too 
little  cheerfulness  to  be  had  at  present  to 
justify  him  in  declining  any  offer  of  it.  So 
he  let  the  landlord  mix  his-  glass  for  him, 
and  mix  it  strong. 

It  was  easy  to  make  the  mixture  strong ; 
but  not  so  easy  to  have  a  "  cheerful  glass." 
The  host  had  too  many  dismal  stories  to 
tell  for  that ;  and,  when  he  could  be  divert- 
ed from  the  theme  of  the  fate  of  Bleaburn, 
it  was  only  to  talk  of  the  old  king's  mad- 
ness, and  the  disasters  of  the  war,  and  the 
weight  of  the  taxes,  and  the  high  price  of 
food,  and  the  riots  in  the  manufacturing 
districts ;  a  long  string  of  disasters  all  un- 
deniably true.  He  was  just  saying  that  he 
had  been  assured  that  somethins:  would 
4 


50  SICKNESS    AND    HEALTH    OF 

soon  appear  whiclr  would  explain  the  ter- 
rors of  the  time,  when  a  strange  cry  was 
hoard  in  the  street,  and  a  bustle  among  the 
neighbors;  and  then  two  or  three  people 
ran  in  and  exclaimed,  with  white  lips,  that 
there  was  a  fearful  sign  in  the  sky. 

There  indeed  it  was,  a  lustrous  thing, 
shining  down  into  the  hollow.  Was  there 
ever  such  a  star  seen,  —  as  large  as  a  sau- 
cer, some  of  the  people  said,  and  with  a 
long  white  tail,  which  looked  as  if  it  was 
about  to  sweep  all  the  common  stars  out  of 
the  sky !  The  sounds  of  amazement  and 
fear  that  ran  along  the  whole  street,  up  and 
down,  brought  the  neighbors  to  their  doors ; 
and  some  to  the  windows,  to  try  how  much 
they  could  see  from  windows  that  would 
not  open.  Each  one  asked  somebody  else 
what  it  was ;  but  all  agreed  that  it  was  a 
token  of  judgment,  and  that  it  accounted 
for  every  thing;  the  cold  spring,  the  bad 
crops,  the  king's  illness,  the  war,  and  this 
dreadful  sickly  autumn.  At  last  they  be- 
thought them  of  the  pastor,  and  they  crowd- 
ed round  him  for  an  explanation.       They 


THE    PEOPLE    OF    BLEABURN.  51 

received  one  in  a  tone  so  faltering  as  to 
confirm  their  fears,  though  Mr.  Finch  de- 
clared that  it  certainly  must  be  a  comet : 
he  had  never  seen  a  comet ;  but  he  was 
confident  this  must  be  one,  and  that  it  must 
be  very  near  the  earth  :  —  he  did  not  mean 
near  enough  to  do  any  harm  ;  —  it  was  all 
nonsense  talking  of  comets  doing  any  harm. 

"  Will  it  do  us  any  good.  Sir  ?  "  asked 
the  carpenter,  sagely. 

"  Not  that  I  know  of.  How  should  it  do 
us  any  good  ?  " 

"Exactly  so.  Sir:  that  is  what  we  say. 
It  is  there  for  no  good,  you  may  rely  upon 
it:  and,  for  the  rest.  Heaven  knows!" 

"  I  hope  Farmer  Neale  may  be  seeing  it," 
observed  a  man  to  his  neighbor.  "  It  may 
be  a  mercy  to  him,  if  it  is  sent  to  warn 
him  of  his  hard  ways." 

"  And  the  doctor,  too.  I  hope  it  will  take 
effect  upon  him,"  whispered  another.  The 
whisper  was  caught  up  and  spread.  "  The 
doctor!  the  doctor!"  everyone  said,  glan- 
cing at  the  comet,  and  falling  to  whispering 
again. 


52  SICKNESS   AND    HEALTH    OF 

"  What  are  they  saying  about  the  doc- 
tor?" whispered  Mr.  Finch  to  the  landlord. 
«  What  is  the  matter  about  him  ?  "  But 
the  landlord  only  shook  his  head,  and  looked 
excessively  solemn  in  the  yellow  light  which 
streamed  from  his  open  door.  After  this, 
Mr.  Finch  was  very  silent,  and  soon  stole 
away  homewards.  Some  who  watched 
him  said  that  he  was  more  alarmed  than 
he  chose  to  show.  And  this  was  true.  He 
was  more  shaken  than  he  chose  to  admit 
to  his  own  mind.  He  would  not  have  ac- 
knowledged to  himself  that  he,  an  educated 
man,  could  be  afraid  of  a  comet :  but,  un- 
nerved before  by  anxiety  of  mind,  and  a 
stronger  dose  of  spirit  and  water  than  he 
had  intended  to  take,  he  was  as  open  to 
impression  as  in  the  most  timid  days  of  his 
childhood.  As  he  sat  in  his  study,  the 
bright,  silent,  steady  luminary  seemed  to  be 
still  shining  full  upon  his  very  heart  and 
brain ;  and  the  shadowy  street,  with  its 
groups  of  gazers,  was  before  his  eyes  ;  and 
the  hoarse  or  whiiiijX'ring  voices  oT  the  ter- 
rified people  were  in  his  ear.     He  covered 


THE    PEOPLE    OF    BLEABUKN.  53 

his  eyes,  and  thought  that  he  lived  in  fear- 
ful times.  He  wished  he  was  asleep  ;  but 
then  there  were  three  funerals  for  to-mor- 
row !  He  feared  he  could  not  sleep,  if  he 
went  to  bed.  Yet  to  sit  up  would  be 
worse ;  for  he  could  not  study  to-night,  and 
sitting  up  was  the  most  wearing  thing  of 
all  to  the  nerves.  Presently  he  went  to  his 
cupboard.  Now,  if  ever,  was  the  time  for 
a  cordial ;  for  how  should  he  do  his  duty,  if 
he  did  not  get  sleep  at  night,  with  so  many 
funerals  in  the  morning?  So  he  poured 
out  his  medicine,  as  he  called  it,  and  un- 
corked his  laudanum  bottle,  and  obtained 
the  oblivion  which  is  the  best  comfort  of 
the  incapable. 


54  SICKNESS    AND   HEALTH    OF 


CHAPTER    IV. 


There  were  some  people  in  Bleaburn  to 
whom  the  sign  in  heaven  looked  very  dif- 
ferently. On  the  night  when  the  people 
assembled  in  the  street  to  question  each 
other  about  it,  Mary  was  at  the  Billiters' 
house,  where,  but  for  her,  all  would  have 
been  blank  despair.  Mrs.  Billiter  lay  mut- 
tering all  night  in  the  low  delirium  of  the 
fever;  and  Mary  could  not  do  more  for  her 
than  go  to  the  side  of  her  mattress  now 
and  then,  to  speak  to  her,  and  smooth  her 
pillow,  or  put  a  cool  hand  on  her  forehead, 
while  one  of  the  dying  children  hung  on 
the  other  shoulder.  At  last,  the  little  fel- 
low was  evidently  so  near  death,  that  the 
slightest  movement  on  her  j)art  might  put 
out  the  little  life.     As  he  lav  with  his  head 


THE    PEOPLE    OF    BLEABURN.  55 

on  her  shoulder,  his  bony  arms  hanging 
helpless,  and  his  feet  like  those  of  a  skeleton 
across  her  lap,  she  felt  every  painful  breath 
through  her  whole  frame.  She  happened 
to  sit  opposite  the  window ;  and  the  win- 
dow, which  commanded  a  part  of  the 
brow  of  the  hollow,  happened  to  be  open. 
Wherever  the  Good  Lady  had  been,  the 
windows  would  open  now  ;  and,  when 
closed,  they  were  so  clear  that  the  sunshine 
and  moonlight  could  pour  in  cheerfully. 
This  September  night  was  sultry  and  dry ; 
and  three  fever  patients  in  two  little  low 
rooms  needed  whatever  fresh  air  could  be 
had.  There  sat  Mary,  immovable,  with 
her  eyes  fixed  on  the  brow,  from  which  she 
had  seen  more  than  one  star  come  up,  since 
she  last  left  her  seat.  She  now  and  then 
spoke  cheerfully  to  the  poor  mutterer  in  the 
other  room,  to  prevent  her  feeling  lonely,  or 
for  the  chance  of  bringing  back  her  thoughts 
to  real  things ;  and  then  she  had  to  soothe 
little  Ned,  lying  on  a  bed  of  shavings  in 
the  corner,  sore  and  fretful,  and  needing 
ihe  help  that  she   could  not  stir  to  give. 


56  SICKNESS    AND    HEALTH    OF 

His  feeble  cry  would  have  upset  any  spirits 
but  Mary's  ;  but  her  spirits  were  never 
known  to  be  upset,  though  few  women 
have  gone  through  such  ghastly  scenes,  or 
sustained  such  tension  of  anxiety. 

"  I  cannot  conrie  to  you  at  this  moment, 
Ned,"  said  she,  "but  I  will  soon,  —  very 
soon.  Do  you  know  why  your  brother  is 
not  crying?  He  is  going  to  sleep,  —  for  a 
long  quiet  sleep.  Perhaps  he  will  go  to 
sleep  more  comfortably  if  you  can  stop 
crying.  Do  you  think  you  can  stop  crying, 
Ned  ?  " 

The  wailing  was  at  once  a  little  less 
miserable,  and  by  degrees  it  came  to  a  stop 
as  Mary  spoke. 

"  Do  you  know,  your  little  brother  will 
be  quite  well  when  he  wakes  from  that 
long  sleep.  It  will  be  far  away  from  here, 
where  daddy  is." 

"  Let  me  go,  too." 

"  I  think  you  will  go,  Ned.  If  you  do, 
you  will  not  live  here  any  more.  You  will 
live  where  daddy  is  gone." 

"  Will  Dan  Cobb  tease  me  tlicn  ?  Dan 
does  tease  us  so  I " 


THE    PEOPLE    OF    BLEABURN.  57 

Mary  had  to  learn  who  Dan  Cobb  was, 
—  a  littlo  boy  next  door,  who  was  not  in 
the  fever  as  yet.  He  was  always  wanting 
Ned's  top.  Would  he  want  Ned's  top  in 
that  place  where  they  were  all  going  to  be 
well  ? 

"  No,"  said  Mary  ;  "  and  you  will  not 
w^ant  it,  either.  When  we  go  to  that  place, 
we  have  no  trouble  of  carrying  any  thing 
with  us.  We  shall  find  whatever  we  want 
there." 

"What  shall  I  play  at?" 

"  I  don't  know  till  we  go  and  see  ;  but  I 
am  sure  it  will  be  with  something  better 
than  your  top.  But,  Ned,  are  you  angry 
with  Dan?  Do  you  wish  that  he  should 
have  the  fever  ?  And  are  you  glad  or  sorry 
that  he  has  no  top  ?  " 

By  this  time  the  crying  had  stopped ; 
and  Ned,  no  longer  filling  his  ears  with  his 
own  wailing,  wondered  and  asked  what 
that  odd  sound  was,  —  he  did  not  like  it. 

"  It  will  soon  be  over,"  said  Mary,  very 
gently.  "  It  is  your  brother  just  going  to 
sleep.    Now,  lie  and  think  what  you  would 


58  SICKNESS    AND    HEALTH    OF 

say  to  Dan,  if  you  were  going  a  long  way 
oil]  and  wliat  you  would  like  to  be  done 
with  your  top,  when  you  do  not  want  it 
yourself.  You  shall  tell  nie  what  you 
wish  when  I  come  to  you  presently." 

Whether  Ned  was  capable  of  thinking 
she  could  not  judge,  but  he  lay  quite  silent 
for  the  remaining  minutes  of  his  little 
brother's  life,  —  a  great  comfort  to  Mary, 
who  could  not  have  replied,  because  the 
mere  vibration  of  her  own  voice  would 
now  have  been  enough  to  stop  entirely  the 
breathings  which  came  at  longer  and  longer 
intervals.  Her  frame  ached,  and  her  arms 
seemed  to  have  lost  power,  —  so  long  was 
it  since  she  had  changed  her  posture.  At 
such  a  moment  it  was  that  the  great  comet 
came  up  from  behind  the  brow.  The  ap- 
parition was  so  wonderful,  and  so  wholly 
unexpected,  that  Mary's  heart  beat ;  but  it 
was  from  no  fear,  but  rather  from  a  kind  of 
exhilaration.  Slowly  it  ascended,  proving 
that  it  was  no  meteor,  as  she  had  at  the 
first  moment  conjectured.  When  the  bright 
tail   disclosed   itself,    she    understood    the 


THE    TEOPLE    OF    BLEABURN.  59 

spectacle,  and  rejoiced  in  it,  she  scarcely 
knew  why. 

When  at  last  the  breathing  on  her  shoul- 
der ceased,  she  let  down  the  little  corpse 
upon  her  knee,  and  could  just  see,  by  the 
faint  light  from  the  rush  candle  in  the  outer 
room,  that  the  eyes  were  half  closed,  and 
the  face  expressive  of  no  pain.  She  closed 
the  eyes,  and,  after  a  moment's  silence, 
said  :  — 

"  Now,  Ned,  I  am  coming  to  you,  in  a 
minute." 

"  Is  he  asleep  ?  " 

"  Yes.  He  is  in  the  quiet,  long  sleep  I 
told  you  of." 

Ned  feebly  tried  to  make  room  for  his 
brother  on  the  poor  bed  of  shavings ;  and 
he  wondered  when  Mary  said  that  she  was 
making  a  bed  in  the  other  corner  which 
would  do  very  well.  She  was  only  spread- 
ing mammy's  cloak  on  the  ground,  and 
laying  her  own  shawl  over  the  sleeper  ;  but 
she  said  that  would  do  very  well. 

Mary  was  surprised  to  find  Ned's  mind 
so  clear,  as  that  he  had  really  been  thinking 


60  SICKNESS    AND    HEALTH    OF 

about  Dan  and  the  top.  She  truly  sup- 
posed that  it  was  the  clearing  before  death. 
He  said :  — 

"  You  told  me  daddy  was  dead.  Am  I 
going  to  be  dead  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  think  so.  Would  not  you  like 
it?  —  to  go  to  sleep,  and  then  be  quite 
weU  ?  " 

"  But  sha'n't  I  see  Dan,  then  ?  " 

"  Not  for  a  long  time,  I  dare  say  :  and 
whenever  you  do,  I  don't  think  you  and  he 
will  quarrel  again.  I  can  give  Dan  any 
message,  you  know." 

"  Tell  him  he  may  have  my  top.  And 
tell  him  I  hope  he  won't  have  the  fever. 
I  'm  sure  I  don't  like  it  at  all.  I  wish  you 
would  take  me  up,  and  let  me  be  on  your 
knee." 

Mary  could  not  refuse  it,  though  it  was 
soon  to  be  going  over  again  the  scene  just 
closed.  Poor  Ned  was  only  too  light,  as  to 
weight ;  but  he  was  so  wasted  and  sore 
that  it  was  not  easy  to  fmd  a  position  for 
him.  For  a  few  minutes  he  was  interested 
by  the  comet,  which  he  was  easily  led  to 


THE    PEOPLE    OF    BLEABURN.  61 

regard  as  a  beautiful  sight,  and  then  he 
begged  to  be  laid  down  again. 

The  sun  was  just  up  when  Mary  heard 
the  tap  at  the  door  below,  which  came 
every  morning  at  sunrise.  She  put  her 
head  out  of  the  window,  and  said  softly 
that  she  was  coming,  —  would  be  down  in 
two  minutes.  She  laid  poor  Ned  beside 
his  brother,  and  covered  him  with  the  same 
shawl ;  drew  off  the  old  sheets  and  coverlid 
from  the  bed  of  shavings,  bundled  them  up 
with  such  towels  as  were  in  the  room,  and 
put  them  out  of  the  window,  Warrender 
being  below,  ready  to  receive  them.  She 
did  not  venture  to  let  the  poor  mother  see 
them,  delirious  as  she  was.  Softly  did 
Mary  tread  on  the  floor,  and  go  down  the 
creaking  stair.  When  she  reached  the 
street,  she  drew  in,  with  a  deep  sigh,  the 
morning  air. 

"  The  poor  children's  bedding,"  she  said 
to  Warrender. 

"  They  are  gone  ?  "  he  inquired.  "  What, 
both?" 

"  One  just  before  midnight.     The  other 


6SI  SICKNESS    AND    HEALTH    OF 

half  an  hour  ago.     And  their  mother  will 
follow  soon." 

"  The  Lord  have  mercy  upon  us,"  said 
Warrender,  solemnly. 

"  I  think  it  is  mercy  to  take  a  family  thus 
together,"  replied  Mary.  "  But  I  think  of 
poor  Aunty.  If  I  could  find  any  one  to  sit 
here  for  half  an  hour,  I  would  go  to  her, 
and  indeed  I  much  wish  it." 

"  There  is  a  poor  creature  would  be  glad 
enough  to  come,  ma'am,  if  she  thought  you 
would  countenance  it.  A  few  words  will 
tell  you  the  case.  She  is  living  with  Simp- 
son, the  baker's  man,  w^ithout  being  his 
wife.  Widow  Johnson  was  very  stern  with 
her,  and  with  her  daughter,  Billiter,  for 
being  neighborly  with  the  poor  girl, — 
though  people  do  say  that  Simpson  de- 
ceived her  cruelly.  I  am  sure,  if  I  might 
fetch  Sally,  she  would  come,  and  be  thank- 
ful;  and—" 

"  O,  ask  her  to  come  and  help  me  I  If 
she  has  done  wrong,  that  is  the  more  reason 
why  she  should  do  what  good  she  can. 
How  is  Ann  ?  " 


THE    PEOPLE    OF    BLEABURN.  63 

"  Pretty  well.  Rather  worn,  as  we  must 
all  expect  to  be.  She  never  stood  so  many 
hours  at  the  wash-tub,  any  one  day,  as  she 
does  now  every  day  :  but  then,  as  she  says, 
there  never  was  so  much  reason." 

"  And  you,  yourself  ?  " 

"  I  am  getting  through,  ma'am,  thank 
you.  I  seem  to  see  the  end  of  the  white- 
washing, for  one  thing.  They  have  sent 
us   more    brushes    of  the   right   sort   from 

O ,  and  I  should  like,  if  I  could,  to  get 

two  or  three  boys  into  training.  They 
might  do  the  outhouses  and  the  lower 
parts,  where  there  are  fewest  sick,  while  I 
am  up  stairs.  But,  for  some  reason  or  oth- 
er, the  lads  are  shy  of  me.  There  is  some 
difference  already,  I  assure  you,  ma'am, 
both  as  to  sight  and  smell ;  but  there  might 
be  more,  if  1  could  get  better  help." 

"  And  you  are  careful,  I  hope,  for  Ann's 
sake,  to  put  all  the  linen  first  into  a  tub  of 
water  outside." 

"  Yes,  surely.  I  got  the  carpenter's  men 
to  set  a  row  of  tubs  beside  our  door,  and  to 
promise   to   change  the  water  once  a  day. 


64  SICKNESS    AND    HEALTH    OF 

I  laughed  at  them  for  asking  if  they  could 
catch  the  fever  that  way  :  and  they  are 
willing  enough  to  oblige  where  there  's  no 
danger.  Simpson  offered  to  look  to  our 
boiler  as  he  goes  to  the  bakehouse,  when, 
as  he  says,  Ann  and  I  ought  to  be  asleep. 
I  let  him  do  it  and  thank  him  ;  but  it  is  not 
much  that  we  sleep,  or  think  of  sleeping, 
just  now." 

"  Indeed,"  said  Mary,  "  you  have  had  a 
hard  life  of  it,  and  without  pay  or  reward, 
I  am  afraid.     I  never  saw  such — " 

"  Why,  ma'am,"  said  Warrender,  "  you 
are  the  last  person  to  say  those  sort  of 
things.  However,  it  is  not  a  time  for 
praising  one  another,  when  there  are  signs 
in  the  heaven,  and  God's  wTath  on  earth." 

"  You  saw  the  comet,  did  you  ?  How 
beautiful  it  is  !  It  will  cheer  our  watch  at 
nights  now.  Ah  !  you  see  I  don't  consider 
it  any  thing  fearful,  or  a  sign  of  any  thing 
but  that,  having  a  new  sort  of  stars  brought 
before  our  eyes  to  admire,  we  don't  under- 
stand all  about  the  heavens  yet,  though  we 
know  a  good  deal ;  and  just  so  with  the 


THE    PEOPLE    OF    BLEABURN.  65 

H 

fever  :  it  is  a  sign,  not  of  wrath,  as  I  take  it,  • 
but  that  the  people  here  do  not  understand 
how  to  keep  their  health.  They  have  lived 
in  dirt,  and  damp,  and  closeness,  some 
hungry  and  some  drunken  :  and  when  un- 
usual weather  comes,  a  wet  spring  and  a 
broiling  summer,  down  they  sink  under  the 
fever.  Do  you  know,  I  dare  not  call  this 
God's  wrath." 

Warrender  did  not  like  to  say  it,  but  the 
thought  was  in  his  mind,  \vhy  people  were 
left  so  ignorant  and  so  suffering.  Mary 
was  quick  at  reading  faces,  and  she  an- 
swered the  good  fellow's  mind,  while  she 
helped  to  hoist  the  bundle  of  linen  on  his 
shoulder. 

"  We  shall  see,  Warrender,  whether  the 
people  can  learn  by  God's  teaching.  He 
is  giving  us  a  very  clear  and  strong  lesson 
now." 

Warrender  touched  his  hat  in  silence, 
and  walked  away. 

Aunty  had  for  some  time  been  out  of 
danger  from  the  fever,  or  Mary  could  not 
have  left  her  to  attend  on  the  Billiters,  ur- 

5 


6G  SICKNESS    AND    HEALTH    OF 

gent  as  ^va^^  tlu'ir  need.  But  her  weakness 
was  so  i^reat  that  she  had  to  be  satisfied  to 
lie  still  all  day  in  the  intervals  of  Mary's 
little  visits.  Poor  Jem  brought  lier  this 
and  that,  when  she  asked  for  it,  but  lie  was 
more  trouble  than  help,  from  his  incurable 
determination  to  shut  all  doors  and  win- 
dows, and  keep  a  roaring  fire  :  he  did 
every  thing  else,  within  his  power,  that  his 
mother  desired  him,  but  on  these  points  he 
was  immovable.  If  ever  his  mother  closed 
her  eyes,  he  took  the  opportunity  to  put 
more  wood  on  the  fire  ;  and  he  looked  so 
gi'ievously  distressed  if  requested  to  take  it 
off  again,  that  at  last  he  was  let  alone. 
Mary  was  fairly  accustoming  him  to  occupy 
himself  in  bringing  pails  of  water  and  car- 
rying away  all  refuse,  when  she  was  sum- 
moned to  the  Billiters  ;  but  the  hint  was 
given,  and  the  neighbors  saw  that  they 
need  no  longer  use  water  three  or  four 
times  over  for  washing,  while  poor  Jem 
was  happy  to  carry  it  away,  rinse  the  pails, 
and  bring  fresh.  His  cousin  IVIary  had 
often  of  late  found  him  thus  engaged  :  but 


THE    PEOPLE    OF    BLEABURN.  G7 

this  morning  he  was  at  home,  cowering  in 
a  chair.  When  she  set  the  windows  open, 
he  made  no  practical  objection;  and  the 
fire  was  actually  out.  Mary  was  not  there- 
fore surprised  at  Aunty's  reply  to  her  in- 
quiries. 

"  I  am  tolerably  easy  myself,  my  dear, 
but  I  can't  tell  what  has  come  over  Jem ; 
it  seems  to  me  that  somebody  must  have 
been  giving  him  drink,  he  staggered  so 
when  he  crossed  the  room  half  an  hour 
ago;  yet  I  hardly  think  he  would  take 
it,  he  has  such  a  dislike  to  every  thing 
strong.  What  a  thing  it  is  that  I  am 
lying  here,  unable  to  stir  to  see  about  it 
myself  I" 

"  We  will  see  about  it,"  said  Mary,  go- 
ing to  poor  Jem.  "  I  neither  think  he 
would  touch  drink,  nor  that  any  body 
would  play  such  a  trick  with  him  at  such 
a  time.  No,"  she  went  on,  when  she  had 
felt  his  pulse  and  looked  well  at  his  face, 
"it  is  not  drink  ;  it  is  illness." 

"  The  fever,"  groaned  the  mother. 

"  I  think  so.     Courage,  Aunty !  we  will 


68  SICKNESS    AND    HEALTH    OP 

nurse  him  well:  and  the  house  is  whole- 
some now,  you  know.  You  are  through 
the  fever :  and  his  chance  is  a  better  one 
than  yours,  the  house  is  so  much  more 
airy,  and  I  have  more  experience." 

"  But,  Mary,  you  cannot  go  on  for  ever, 
without  sleep  or  rest,  in  this  way.  What 
is  to  be  done,  I  don't  see." 

"  I  do.  Aunty.  I  am  very  well  to-day. 
To-morrow  will  take  care  of  itself.  I  must 
get  Jem  to  bed ;  and  if  he  soon  seems  to 
be  moaning  and  restless,  you  must  mind 
it  as  little  as  you  can.  It  is  very  misera- 
ble, as  you  have  good  reason  to  know; 
but  —  " 

"  I  know  something  that  you  do  not,  I 
see,"  said  Aunty.  "  A  more  patient  crea- 
ture than  my  poor  Jem  does  not  live  in 
Bleaburn,  nor  anywhere  else." 

"  What  a  good  chance  that  gives  him  I " 
observed  Mary,  "  and  what  a  blessing  it  is, 
for  himself  and  for  you!  I  must  go  to  my 
cousin  now  presently ;  and  I  will  send  the 
doctor  to  see  Jem." 

The   poor  fellow  allowed  himself  to  be 


THE    PEOPLE    OF    BLEABUK.X.  69 

undressed ;  and  let  his  head  fall  on  his  bol- 
ster, as  if  it  could  not  have  kept  up  a  min- 
ute longer.  He  was  fairly  down  in  the 
fever. 


70  SICKNESS    AND    HEALTH    OF 


CHAPTER     V. 


That  evening  Mary  felt  more  at  leisure 
and  at  rest  than  for  weeks  past.  There 
was  nothing  to  be  done  for  Mrs.  Billiter 
but  to  watch  beside  her;  and  the  carpenter 
had  had  his  whispered  orders  in  the  street 
for  the  cofHns  for  the  two  little  boys.  The 
mother  had  asked  no  questions,  and  had 
appeared  to  be  wandering  too  much  to  take 
notice  of  any  thing  passing  before  her  eyes. 
Now  she  was  quiet,  and  Mary  felt  the  re- 
lief. She  had  refreshed  herself  (and  she 
used  to  tell,  in  after  years,  what  such  re- 
freshments were  worth)  with  cold  water, 
and  a  clean  wrapper,  and  a  mutton-chop, 
sent  hot  from  the  Plough  and  Harrow  for 
the  Good  Lady  (with  some  wine,  which 
she   kept  for  the   convalescents),  and  she 


THE    PEOPLE    OF    BLEABURN.  71 

was  now  sitting  back  in  her  chair  beside 
the  open  window,  through  which  fell  a 
yellow  glow  of  reflected  sunshine  from  the 
opposite  heights.  All  was  profoundly  still. 
When  she  had  once  satisfied  her  conscience 
that  she  ought  not  to  be  plying  her  needle 
because  her  eyes  were  strained  for  want  of 
sleep,  she  gave  herself  up  to  the  enjoyment 
—  for  she  really  was  capable  of  enjoyment 
through  every  thing  —  of  watching  the  op- 
posite precipice ;  how  the  shadow  crept  up 
it;  and  how  the  sunny  crest  seemed  to 
grow  brighter ;  and  how  the  swallows  dart- 
ed past  their  holes,  and  skimmed  down  the 
hollow  once  more  before  night  should  come 
on.  Struck,  at  last,  by  the  silence,  she 
turned  her  head,  and  was  astonished  at  the 
change  she  saw.  Her  cousin  lay  quiet, 
looking  as  radiant  as  the  sunset  itself;  her 
large  black  eyes  shining,  unoppressed  by 
the  rich  light;  her  long  dark  hair  on  each 
side  the  wasted  face,  and  waving  down  to 
the  white  hands  which  lay  outside  the  quilt. 
Their  eyes  met,  full  and  clear ;  and  Mary 
knew  that  her  cousin's  mind  was  now 
clear,  like  the  gaze  of  her  eyes. 


72  SICKNESS    AND    HEALTH    OF 

«  I  see  it  all  now,"  said  the  dying  woman, 
gently. 

"  What  do  you  see,  love  ?  " 

"  I  see  the  reason  of  every  thing  that  I 
did  not  understand  before."  And  she  be- 
gan to  speak  of  her  life  and  its  events,  and 
went  on  with  a  force  and  clearness,  and 
natural  eloquence,  —  yet  more,  with  a  sim- 
ple piety,  —  which  Mary  was  wont  to  speak 
of  afterwards  as  the  finest  revelation  of  a 
noble  soul  that  she  had  ever  unexpectedly 
met  with.  Mrs.  Billiter  knew  that  her  lit- 
tle boys  were  dead;  she  knew,  by  some 
means  or  other,  all  the  horrors  by  which 
she  was  surrounded;  and  she  knew  that 
she  was  about  to  die.  Yet  the  conversa- 
tion was  a  thoroughly  cheerful  one.  The 
faces  of  both  were  smiling;  the  voices  of 
both  were  lively,  though  that  of  the  dying 
woman  was  feeble.  After  summing  up  the 
experience  of  her  life,  and  declaring  what 
she  expected  to  experience  next,  and  leav- 
ing a  message  for  her  mother,  she  said 
there  was  but  one  thing  more ;  she  "  should 
like  to  receive  the  sacrament."    Mary  wrote 


THE    PEOPLE    OF    BLEABURN.  73 

a  note  in  pencil  to  Mr.  Finch,  and  sent  it 
by  Sally,  who  had  been  hovering  about 
ever  since  the  morning,  in  the  hope  of  be- 
ing of  further  use,  but  who  was  glad  now 
to  get  out  of  sight,  that  her  tears  might 
have  way ;  for  she  felt  that  she  was  about 
to  lose  the  only  friend  who  had  been  kind 
to  her  (in  a  way  she  could  accept)  since 
Simpson  had  put  her  off  from  the  promised 
marriage. 

"  She  is  sorry  to  part  with  me,"  said  that 
dying  friend.  "  Cousin  Mary,  you  do  not 
think,  as  my  mother  does,  that  I  have  done 
wrong  in  noticing  Sally,  do  you  ?  " 

"  No ;  I  think  you  did  well.  And  I  think 
your  mother  will  be  kind  to  her,  for  your 
sake,  from  this  time  forward.  Sickness 
and  death  open  our  eyes  to  many  things, 
you  know,  cousin." 

"  Ay,  they  do.     I  see  it  all  now." 

Sally  was  sorely  ashamed  to  bring  back 
Mr.  Finch's  message.  Well  as  she  knew 
that  time  was  precious,  she  lingered  with  it 
at  the  door. 

Mr.  Finch  was   sorry,   but  he  was  too 


74  SICKNESS    AND    HEALTH    OF 

busy.  He  hoped  he  should  not  be  sent  for 
again  ;  for  he  could  not  come. 

"  Perhaps,  Miss,"  said  Sally,  with  swim- 
ming eyes,  "  it  might  have  been  better  to 
send  somebody  else  than  me.  Perhaps,  if 
you  sent  somebody  else  —  " 

"  I  do  not  think  that,  Sally.  However,  if 
you  will  remain  here,  I  will  go  myself.  It 
does  not  matter  what  he  thinks  of  me,  a 
stranger  in  the  place ;  and  perhaps  none  of 
his  flock  could  so  well  tell  him  that  this  is 
a  duty  which  he  cannot  refuse." 

Mary  had  not  walked  up  the  street  for 
several  weeks.  Though  her  good  influence 
was  in  almost  every  house,  in  the  form  of 
cleanliness,  fresh  air,  cheerfulness,  and  hope, 
she  had  been  seen  only  when  passing  from 
one  sick-room  to  another,  among  a  cluster 
of  houses  near  her  aunt's.  She  supposed 
it  might  be  this  disuse  which  made  ev- 
ery thing  appear  strange ;  but  it  was  odd 
scarcely  to  feel  her  limbs  when  she  walked, 
and  to  see  the  people  and  houses  like  so 
many  visions.  She  had  no  feeling  of  ill- 
ness, however,  and  she  said  to  herself,  that 


THE    PEOrLE    OF    BLEABURN.  75 

some  time  or  other  she  should  get  a  good 
long  sleep ;  and  then  every  thing  would 
look  and  feel  as  it  used  to  do. 

As  she  passed  along  the  street,  the  chil- 
dren at  play  ran  into  the  houses  to  say 
that  the  Good  Lady  was  coming ;  and  the 
healthy  and  the  convalescent  came  out  on 
their  door-steps,  to  bid  God  bless  her ;  and 
the  sick  who  were  sensible  enough  to  know 
what  was  going  on,  bade  God  bless  her 
from  their  beds. 

What  influence  the  Good  Lady  used 
with  the  clergyman  there  is  no  saying,  as 
the  conversation  was  never  reported  by 
either  of  them;  but  she  soon  came  back 
bright  and  cheerful,  saying  that  Mr.  Finch 
would  follow  in  an  hour.  She  had  stepped 
in  at  Warrender's,  to  beg  the  father  and 
daughter  to  come  and  communicate  with 
the  dying  woman.  They  would  come : 
and  Sally  would  go,  she  was  sure,  and 
take  Ann  Warrender's  place  at  the  wash- 
tub  at  home ;  for  there  were  several  sick 
people  in  want  of  fresh  linen  before  night. 
Poor    Sally    went     sobbing    through    the 


76  SICKNESS    AND    HEALTH    OF 

streets.  She  understood  the  Good  Lady's 
kindness  in  sending  her  away,  and  on  a 
work  of  usefuhicss,  because  she,  alas !  could 
not  receive  the  communion.  She  was  liv- 
ing in  sin ;  and  when  two  or  three  were 
gathered  together  in  the  name  of  Christ, 
she  must  be  cast  out. 

There  was  little  comfort  in  the  service, 
unless,  as  the  by-standers  hoped,  the  sick 
woman  was  too  feeble  and  too  much  ab- 
sorbed in  her  own  thoughts  to  notice  some 
things  that  dismayed  them.  Mrs.  Billiter 
was,  indeed,  surprised  at  first  at  the  clergy- 
man's refusal  to  enter  the  chamber.  He 
would  come  no  farther  than  the  door. 
Mary  saw  at  a  glance  that  he  \vas  in  no 
condition  to  be  reasoned  with,  and  that  she 
must  give  what  aid  she  could  to  get  the 
administration  over  as  decently  as  possible. 
Happily,  he  made  the  service  extremely 
short.  The  little  that  there  was,  he  read 
wrong:  but  Mrs.  Billiter  (and  she  alone) 
was  not  disturbed  by  this.  Whether  it  was 
that  the  deadening  of  the  ear  liad  begun, 
or  that  Mr.  Finch  spoke  indistinctly,  and 


THE    PEOPLE    OF    BLEABURN.  77 

was  chewing  spices  all  the  time,  or  that 
the  observance  itself  was  enough  for  the 
poor  woman,  it  seemed  all  right  with  her. 
She  lay  with  her  eyes  still  shining,  her 
wasted  hands  clasped,  and  a  smile  on  her 
face,  quite  easy  and  content;  and  when 
Mr.  Finch  was  gone,  she  told  Mary  again 
that  she  saw  it  all  now,  and  was  quite 
ready.     She  was  dead  within  an  hour. 

As  for  Warrender,  he  was  more  dis- 
turbed than  any  one  had  seen  him  since 
the  breaking  out  of  the  fever. 

"  Why,  there  it  is  before  his  eyes  in  the 
Prayer-book,"  said  he,  "  that  clergymen 
'  shall  diligently  from  time  to  time  (but 
especially  in  the  time  of  pestilence,  or  other 
infectious  sickness)  exhort  their  parishion- 
ers to  the  often  receiving  of  the  holy  com- 
munion': and  instead  of  this,  he  even 
shuts  up  the  church  on  Sundays." 

"  He  is  not  the  first  who  has  done  that," 
said  Mary.  "  It  was  done  in  times  of 
plague,  as  a  matter  of  precaution." 

"  But,  Miss,  should  not  a  clergyman  go 
all  the  more  among  the  people,  and  not  the 


78  SICKNESS    AND    HEALTH    OF 

less,  for  their  having  no  comfort  of  wor- 
ship ?  " 

"  Certainly :  but  you  see  how  it  is  with 
Mr.  Finch,  and  you  and  I  cannot  alter  it. 
He  has  taken  a  panic ;  and  I  am  sure  he  is 
the  one  most  to  be  pitied  for  that.  I  can 
tell  you,  too,  between  ourselves,  that  Mr. 
Finch  judges  himself,  at  times,  as  severely 
as  we  can  judge  him  ;  and  is  more  unhap- 
py about  being  of  so  little  use  to  his  people 
than  his  worst  enerhy  could  wish  him.'' 

"  Then,  ma'am,  why  does  not  he  pluck 
up  a  little  spirit,  and  do  his  duty?" 

"  He  has  been  made  too  soft,  he  says, 
by  a  fond  mother,  who  is  always  sending 
him  cordials  and  spices  against  the  fever. 
We  must  make  some  allowance,  and  look 
another  way.  Let  us  be  thankful  that  you 
and  Ann  are  not  afraid.  If  our  poor  neigh- 
bors have  not  all  that  we  could  wish,  they 
have  clean  bedding  and  clothes,  and  lime- 
washed  rooms,  fresh  and  sweet  compared 
with  any  thing  they  have  known  before." 

"  And,"  thought  Warrender,  though  he 
did  not  say  it,  but  only  touched  his  hat  as 


THE    PEOPLE    OF    BLEABURN.  79 

he  went  after  his  business,  "  one  as  good 
as  any  clergyman  to  pray  by  their  bedsides, 
and  speak  cheerfully  to  them  of  what  is  to 
come.  When  I  go  up  the  stair,  I  might 
know  who  is  praying  by  the  cheerfulness  of 
the  voice.  I  never  saw  such  a  spirit  in  any 
woman,  —  never.  I  have  never  once  seen 
her  cast  down,  ever  so  little.  If  there  is  a 
tear  in  her  eye,  for  other  people's  sake, 
there  is  a  smile  on  her  lips,  because  her 
heart  tells  her  that  every  thing  that  happens 
is  all  right." 

This  night  Mary  was  to  have  slept.  She 
herself  had  intended  it,  warned  by  the 
strange  feelings  which  had  come  over  her 
as  she  walked  up  the  street :  and  it  would 
gratify  Aunty's  feelings  that  the  corpse 
should  not  be  left.  She  intended  to  lie 
down  and  sleep  beside  the  still  and  un- 
breathing  form  of  the  cousin  whose  last 
hours  had  been  so  beautiful  in  her  eyes. 
But  Aunty's  feelings  were  now  tried  in 
another  direction.  Unable  to  move.  Aunty 
was  sorely  distressed  by  Jem's  moanings 
and  restlessness ;  and  Mary  was  the  only 


80  SICKNESS    AND   HEALTH    OF 

one  who  could  keep  him  quiet  in  any  de- 
gree. So,  without  interval,  she  went  to 
her  work  of  nursing  again.  Next,  the  fu- 
neral of  Mrs.  Billiter,  and  two  or  three 
more,  fixed  for  the  same  day,  were  put  off*, 
because  Mr.  Finch  was  ill.  And  when  Mr. 
Finch  was  ill,  he  sent  to  beg  the  Good 
Lady  to  come  immediately  and  nurse  him. 
After  writing  to  his  own  family,  to  desire 
some  of  them  to  come  and  take  charge  of 
him,  she  did  go  to  him  :  but  not  to  remain 
day  and  night,  as  she  did  with  the  poor 
who  had  none  to  help  them.  She  saw  that 
all  was  made  comfortable  about  him,  gave 
him  his  medicines  at  times,  and  always 
spoke  cheerfully.  But  it  was  as  she  saw 
from  the  beginning.  He  was  dying  of  fear, 
and  of  the  intemperate  methods  of  precau- 
tion which  he  had  adopted,  and  of  dissatis- 
faction with  himself.  His  nervous  depres- 
sion from  the  outset  was  such  as  to  pre- 
dispose him  to  disease,  and  to  allow  him 
no  chance  under  it.  He  was  sinking  when 
his  mother  and  sister  arrived,  pale  and  tear- 
ful, to  nurse  him :  and  it  did  no  good  that 


THE    PEOPLE    OF    BLEABURN.  81 

they  isolated  the  house,  and  locked  the 
doors,  and  took  things  in  by  the  window, 
after  being  fumigated  by  a  sentinel  outside. 
The  doctor  laughed  as  he  asked  them 
whether  they  would  not  be.  more  glad  to 
see  him,  if  he  came  down  the  chimney,  in- 
stead of  their  having  to  unlock  the  door  for 
him.  He  wondered  they  had  not  a  vinegar 
bath  for  him  to  go  overhead  in,  before  en- 
tering their  presence.  The  ladies  thought 
this  shocking  levity  ;  and  they  did  not  con- 
ceal their  opinion.  The  doctor  then  spoke 
gravely  enough  of  the  effects  of  fear  on  the 
human  frame.  With  its  effects  on  the  con- 
science, and  on  the  peace  of  the  mind,  he 
said  he  had  nothing  to  do.  That  was  the 
department  of  the  physician  of  souls.  (His 
hearers  were  unconscious  of  the  mournful 
satire  conveyed  in  these  words.)  His  busi- 
ness was  with  the  efiiect  of  fear  on  the 
nerves  and  brain,  exhausting  through  them 
the  resources  of  life.  He  declared  that 
Mr.  Finch  would  probably  have  been  well 
at  that  moment,  if  he  had  gone  about  as 
freely  as    other   persons    among   the   sick, 

6 


82  SICKNESS    AND    HEALTH    OF 

more  interested  in  getting  them  well  than 
afraid  of  being  ill  himself;  and,  for  con- 
firmation, he  pointed  to  the  Good  Lady 
and  the  Warrenders,  wlio  had  now  for  two 
months  rnn  all  sorts  of  risks,  and  showed 
no  sign  of  fever.  They  were  fatigued,  he 
said;  too  much  so;  as  he  was  himself; 
and  something  must  be  done  to  relieve 
Miss  Pickard  especially ;  but  —  " 

"  Who  is  she  ? "  inquired  the  ladies. 
"  Why  is  she  so  prominent  here  ?  " 

"  As  for  who  she  is,"  replied  he,  "  I  only 
know  that  she  is  an  angel." 

"  Come  down  out  of  the  clouds,  I  sup- 
pose." 

"  Something  very  like  it.  She  dropped 
into  our  hollow  one  August  evening, —  no- 
body knows  whence  nor  why.  As  for  her 
taking  the  lead  here,  I  imagine  it  is  because 
there  was  nobody  else  to  do  it." 

"  But  has  she  saved  many  lives,  do  you 
think?" 

"  Yes,  of  some  that  are  too  young  to  be 
aware  what  they  owe  her ;  and  of  some  yet 
unborn.     She  could  not  do  much  for  those 


THE    PEOPLE    OF    BLEABURN.  83 

who  were  down  in  the  fever  before  she 
came:  except,  indeed,  that  it  is  much  to 
give  them  a  sense  of  relief  and  comfort  of 
body  (though  short  of  saving  life)  and  peace 
of  mind,  and  cheerfulness  of  heart.  But 
the  great  consequences  of  her  presence  are 
to  come.  When  I  see  the  great  change 
that  is  taking  place  in  the  cottages  here, 
and  in  the  clothes  of  the  people,  and  their 
care  of  their  skins,  and  their  notions  about 
their  food,  I  feel  disposed  to  believe  that 
this  is  the  last  plague  that  will  ever  be 
known  in  Bleaburn." 

"  Plague !  O  horrid !  "  exclaimed  the  shud- 
dering  sister. 

"  Call  it  what  you  will,"  the  doctor  replied. 
«  The  name  matters  little  when  the  thing 
makes  itself  so  clear.  Yes,  by  the  way,  it 
may  matter  much  with  such  a  patient  as 
we  have  within  there.  Pray,  whatever  you 
do,  don't  use  the  word  '  plague '  within  his 
hearing.  You  must  cheer  him  up;  only 
that  you  sadly  want  cheering  yourselves. 
I  think  an  hour  a  day  of  the  Good  Lady's 
smile  would  be  the  best  prescription  for 
you  all." 


84  SICKNESS    AND    HEALTH    OF 

"Do  you  think  she  would  come?  We 
should  be  so  obliged  to  her  if  she  would  I" 

"  And  she  should  have  a  change  of  dress 
lying  ready  in  the  passage-room,"  declared 
the  young  lady.  "  I  think  she  is  about  my 
size.     Do  ask  her  to  come." 

"  When  I  see  that  she  is  not  more  want- 
ed elsewhere,"  replied  the  doctor.  "  I  need 
not  explain,  however,  that  that  smile  of  hers 
is  not  an  elTect  without  a  cause.  If  wc 
could  find  out  whether  we  have  any  thing 
of  the  same  cause  in  ourselves,  we  might 
have  a  cheerfulness  of  our  own,  without 
troubling  her  to  come  and  give  us  some." 

The  ladies  thought  this  odd,  and  did  not 
quite  understand  it,  and  agreed  that  they 
should  not  like  to  be  merry  and  unfeeling 
in  a  time  of  affliction  ;  so  they  cried  a  great 
deal  when  they  were  not  in  the  sick-room. 
They  derived  some  general  idea,  however, 
from  the  doctor's  words,  that  cheerfulness 
was  good  for  the  patient;  and  they  kept 
assuring  him,  in  tones  of  forced  vivacity, 
that  there  was  no  danger,  and  that  the  doc- 
tor said  he  would  be  well  very  soon.     The 


THE    PEOPLE    OF    BLEABURN.  85 

patient  groaned,  remembering  the  daily  fu- 
nerals of  the  layt  few  weeks;  and  the  only 
consequence  was  that  he  distrusted  the  doc- 
tor. He  sank  more  rapidly  than  any  other 
fever  patient  in  the  place.  In  a  newspaper 
paragraph,  and  on  a  monumental  tablet, 
he  was  described  as  a  martyr  to  his  sacred 
office  in  a  season  of  pestilence ;  and  his 
family  called  on  future  generations  to  honor 
him  accordingly. 

"  I  am  sorry  for  the  poor  young  man," 
observed  the  host  at  the  Plough  and  Har- 
row ;  "  he  did  very  well  while  nothing  went 
wrong;  but  he  had  no  spirit  for  trying 
times." 

"  Who  has  ?  "  murmured  Farmer  Neale. 
"  Any  man's  heart  may  die  within  him  that 
looks  into  the  churchyard  now." 

"  There  's  a  woman's  that  does  not,"  ob- 
served the  host ;  "  I  saw  the  Good  Lady 
crossing  the  churchyard  this  very  morning, 
with  a  basket  of  physic  bottles  on  her 
arm  —  " 

"  Ah !  she  goes  to  help  to  make  up  the 
medicines  every  day  now,"  the  hostess  ex- 


86  SICKNESS    AND    HEALTH    OF 

plained,  "since  tlie  people  began  to  suspect 
foul  play  in  their  physic." 

"  Well ;  she  came  across  the  bit  of  grass 
that  is  left,  and  looked  over  the  rows  of 
graves,  —  not  smiling  exactly,  but  as  if  there 
was  not  a  sad  thought  from  top  to  bottom 
of  her  n)ind,  —  much  as  she  might  look  if 
she  was  coming  away  from  her  own  wed- 
ding." 

"  What  is  that  about  '  sweet  hopes,'  in 
the  newspaper?"  asked  Neale;  "about  some 
'  sweet  hopes'  that  Mr.  Finch  had?  Was 
he  going  to  be  married  ?  " 

"  By  that,  I  should  think  he  was  in  love," 
said  the  host  :  "  and  that  may  excuse 
some  backwardness  in  coming  forward,  you 
know." 

"  The  Good  Lady  is  to  be  married,  when 
she  gets  home  to  America,"  the  hostess  de- 
clared. "  Yes,  't  is  true.  Widow  Johnson 
told  the  doctor  so." 

"  What  ivill  her  lover  say  to  her  risking 
her  life,  and  spending  her  time  in  siich  a 
way,  here  ?  "  said  Neale. 

"  She  tells  her  aunt  that  he  will  only  wish 


TllE    PEOPLE    OF    BLEABURN.  87 

he  was  here  to  help  her.  He  is  a  clergy- 
man. '  O,'  says  she,  *  he  will  only  wish  he 
was  here  to  help  us.'  " 

"  I  am  sm-e  I  wish  he  was,"  sighed  Neale. 
"  I  wonder  what  sort  of  a  man  will  be  sent 
us  next.  I  hope  he  will  be  something  un- 
like poor  Ml*.  Finch." 

"  I  think  you  will  have  your  wish,"  said 
the  landlord.  "  No  man  of  Mr.  Finch's 
sort  would  be  likely  to  come  among  us  at 
such  a  time." 


88  SICKNESS    AND    HEALTH    OP 


CHAPTER   VI. 


The  new  clergyman  was,  as  the  landlord 
had  supposed  he  would  be,  a  very  different 
person  from  Mr.  Finch.  If  he  had  not  been 
a  fearless  man,  he  would  not  have  come : 
much  less  would  he  have  brought  his  wife, 
which  he  did.  The  first  sight  of  this  re- 
spectable couple,  middle-aged,  business-like, 
and  somewhat  dry  in  their  manner,  tended 
to  give  sobriety  to  the  tone  of  mind  of  the 
Bleaburn  people ;  a  sobriety  which  was 
more  and  more  wanted  from  day  to  day; 
while  certainly  the  aspect  of  Bleaburn  was 
enough  to  discourage  the  new  residents,  let 
their  expectations  have  been  as  dismal  as 
they  might. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Kirby  arrived  when  Blea- 
burn was  at  its  lowest  point  of  depression 


THE    PEOPLE    OF    BLEABURN.  89 

and  woe.  The  churchyard  was  now  so  full 
that  it  could  not  be  made  to  hold  more ; 
and  ten  or  eleven  corpses  were  actually  lying 
unburied,  infecting  half  a  dozen  cottages, 
from  this  cause.  There  was  an  actual 
want  of  food  in  the  place, —  so  few  were 
able  to  earn  wages.  Farmer  Neale  did  all 
he  could  to  tempt  his  neighbors  to  work  for 
him;  for  no  strangers  would  come  near  a 
place  which  was  regarded  as  a  pesthouse ; 
but  the  strongest  arm  had  lost  its  strength ; 
and  the  men,  even  those  who  had  not  had 
the  fever,  said  they  felt  as  if  they  could  nev- 
er work  again.  The  women  went  on,  as 
habitual  knitters  do,  knitting  early  and  late, 
almost  night  and  day ;  but  there  was  no 
sale.  Even  if  their  wares  were  avouched 
to  have  been  passed  through  soap  and  wa- 
ter before  they  were  brought  to  O ,  still 

no  one  would  run  the  slightest  risk  for  the 
sake  of  hose  and  comforters ;  and  week 
after  week,  word  was  sent  that  nothing  was 
sold :  and  at  last,  that  it  would  be  better 
not  to  send  any  more  knitted  goods.  In 
the  midst  of  all  this  distress,  there  was  no 


90  SICKNESS    AND    HEALTH    OF 

one  to  speak  to  the  people ;  no  one  to  keep 
their  minds  clear  and  their  hearts  steady. 
For  many  weeks,  there  had  not  been  a 
prayer  publicly  read,  nor  a  psalm  sung. 
Meanwhile,  the  great  comet  appeared  night- 
ly, week  after  week.  It  seemed  as  if  it 
would  never  go  away;  and  there  was  a 
general  persuasion  that  the  comet  was  sent 
for  a  sign  to  Bleaburn  alone,  and  not  at  all 
for  the  rest  of  the  earth,  or  of  the  universe ; 
and  that  the  fever  would  not  be  stayed 
while  the  sign  remained  in  the  sky.  It 
would  have  been  well  if  this  had  been  the 
worst.  The  people,  always  rude,  were  now 
growing  desperate ;  and  they  found,  as  des- 
perate people  usually  do,  an  object  near  at 
hand  to  vent  their  fury  upon.  They  said 
that  it  was  the  doctor's  business  to  make 
them  well :  that  he  had  not  made  them  well : 
that  so  many  had  died,  that  any  body  might 
see  how  foul  means  had  been  used;  and 
that  at  last  some  of  the  doctor's  tricks  had 
come  out.  Two  of  Dick  Taylor's  children 
had  been  all  but  choked,  by  some  of  the 
doctor's  physic ;  and  they  might  have  died, 


THE    PEOPLE    OF    BLEABURN.  91 

if  the  Good  Lady  had  not  chanced  to  have 
been  there  at  the  moment,  and  known  what 
to  do.  And  the  doctor  tried  to  get  off'  with 
saying  that  it  was  a  mistake,  and  that  that 
physic  was  never  made  to* go  down  any 
body's  throat.  They  said,  too,  that  it  was 
only  in  this  doctor's  time  that  there  had 
been  such  a  fever.  There  was  none  such 
in  the  late  doctor's  time ;  nor  now,  in  other 
places,  —  at  least,  not  so  bad.  It  was  noth- 
ing like  so  bad  at  O .     The  doctor  had 

spoken  lightly  of  the  comet :  he  had  made 
old  Nan  Dart  burn  the  bedding  that  her 
grandmother  left  her,  —  the  same  that  so 
many  of  her  family  had  died  on :  and, 
though  he  gave  her  new  bedding,  it  could 
never  be  the  same  to  her  as  the  old.  But 
there  was  no  use  talking.  The  doctor  was 
there  to  make  them  well;  and  instead  of 
doing  that,  he  made  two  out  of  three  die, 
of  those  that  had  the  fever.  Such  grum- 
blings broke  out  into  storm ;  and  when  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Kirby  descended  into  the  hollow 
which  their  friends  feared  would  be  their 
tomb,  they  found  the  whole  remaining  pop- 


92  SICKNESS    AND    HEALTH    OF 

ulation  of  the  place  blocking  up  the  street 
before  the  doctor's  house,  and  smasliing  his 
phials,  and  making  a  pile  of  his  pill-boxes 
and  little  drawers,  as  they  were  handed  out 
of  his  surgery  window.  A  woman  had 
brought  a  candle  at  the  moment  to  fire  the 
pill-boxes :  and  she  kneeled  down  to  apply 
the  flame.  The  people  had  already  broken 
bottles  enough  to  spill  a  good  deal  of  queer 
stuff;  and  some  of  this  stuff  was  so  queer 
as  to  blaze  up,  half  as  high  as  the  houses, 
as  quick  as  thought.  The  flame  ran  along 
the  ground,  and  spread  like  magic.  The 
people  fled,  supposing  this  the  doings  of 
the  comet  and  the  doctor  together.  Off 
they  went,  up  and  down,  and  into  the 
houses  whose  doors  were  open.  But  the 
woman's  clothes  were  on  fire.  She  would 
have  run  too ;  but  Mr.  Kirby  caught  her 
arm,  and  his  firm  grasp  made  her  stand, 
while  Mrs.  Kirby  wrapped  her  camlet  cloak 
about  the  part  that  was  on  fire.  It  was  so 
quickly  done,  in  such  a  moment  of  time,  that 
the  poor  creature  was  not  much  burned,  — 
not  at  all  dangerously ;   and  the  new  pas- 


THE    PEOPLE    OF    BLEABURN.  93 

tor  was  at  once  informed  of  the  character 
of  the  charge  he  had  undertaken. 

That  very  evening  Warrender  was  sent 
through  the  viUage,  as  crier,  to  give  a  no- 
tice, to  which  every  ear  was  open.  Mr. 
Kirby  having  had  medical  assurance  that 
it  was  injurious  to  the  public  health  that 
more  funerals  should  take  place  in  the 
churchyard,  and  that  the  bodies  should  lie 
unburied,  would  next  day  bury  the  dead 
above  the  brow,  on  a  part  of  Furzy  Knoll, 
selected  for  the  purpose.  For  any  thing 
unusual  about  this  proceeding,  Mr.  Kirby 
would  be  answerable,  considering  the  pres- 
ent state  of  the  village  of  Bleaburn.  A 
wagon  would  pass  through  the  village  at 
six  o'clock  the  next  morning;  and  all  who 
had  a  coffin  in  their  houses  were  requested 
to  bring  it  out,  for  solemn  conveyance  to 
the  new  burial-ground  :  and  those  who 
wished  to  attend  the  interment  must  be 
on  the  ground  at  eight  o'clock. 

All  ears  were  open  again  the  next  morn- 
ing, when  the  cart  made  its  slow  progress 
down  the  street ;  and  some  went  out  to  see. 


•94  SICKNESS    AND   HEALTH    OF 

It  was  starlight:  and  from  the  east  came 
enough  of  dawn  to  show  how  the  vehicle 
looked  with  the  pall  thrown  over  it.  Now 
and  then,  as  it  passed  a  space  between  the 
houses,  a  puff  of  wind  blew  aside  the  edge 
of  the  pall,  and  then  the  coflins  were  seen 
within,  ranged  one  upon  another,  —  quite 
a  load  of  them.  It  stopped  for  a  minute 
at  the  bottom  of  the  street ;  and  it  was  a 
relief  to  the  listeners  to  hear  Warrender 
tell  the  driver  that  there  were  no  more,  and 
that  he  might  proceed  up  to  the  brow.  Af- 
ter watching  the  progress  of  the  cart  till  it 
could  no  longer  be  distinguished  from  the 
wall  of  gray  rock  along  which  it  was  as- 
cending, those  who  could  be  spared  from 
tending  the  sick  put  on  such  black  as  they 
could  muster,  to  go  to  the  service. 

It  was,  happily,  a  fine  morning ;  —  as 
fine  a  November  morning  as  could  be  seen. 
It  is  not  often  that  weather  is  of  so  much 
consequence  as  it  was  to  the  people  of 
Blcaburn  to-day.  They  could  not  them- 
selves have  told  how  it  was  that  they  came 
down  from  the  awful  service  at  Furzy  Knoll 


THE    PEOPLE    OF    BLEABURN.  95 

SO  much  more  light-hearted  than  they  went 
up ;  and  when  some  of  them  were  asked 
the  reason,  by  those  who  remained  below, 
they  could  not  explain  it,  —  but,  somehow, 
every  thing  looked  brighter.  It  was,  in  fact, 
not  merely  the  calm  sunshine  on  the  hills, 
and  the  quiet  shadows  in  the  hollows ;  it 
was  not  merely  the  ruddy  tinge  of  the  au- 
tumn ferns  on  the  slopes,  or  the  lively  hop 
and  flit  of  the  wagtail  about  the  spring- 
heads and  the  stones  in  the  pool ;  it  was 
not  merely  that  the  fine  morning  yielded 
cheering  influences  like  these,  but  that  it 
enabled  many,  who  would  have  been  kept 
below  by  rain,  to  hear  what  their  new  pas- 
tor had  to  say.  After  going  through  the 
burial  service  very  quietly,  and  waiting  with 
a  cheerful  countenance  while  the  business 
of  lowering  so  many  coflins  by  so  few 
hands  was  effected,  he  addressed,  in  a  plain 
and  conversational  style,  those  who  were 
present.  He  told  them  that  he  had  never 
before  witnessed  an  interment  like  this; 
and  he  did  not  at  all  suppose  that  either  he 
or  they  should  see  such  another.     Indeed, 


96  SICKNESS    AND    HEALTH    OF 

lic'iu-eforth  any  fuiirrals  must  take  place 
witliout  delay ;  as  they  very  well  might, 
now  that,  on  this  beautiful  spot,  there  was 
room  \vithout  limit.  He  told  them  how 
Farmer  Neale  had  had  the  space  they  saw 
staked  out  since  yesterday,  and  how  it 
would  be  fenced  in,  —  roughly,  perhaps,  but 
securely,  —  before  night.  He  hoped  and 
believed  the  worst  of  the  sickness  was  over. 
The  cold  weather  was  coming  on  ;  and 
perhaps,  he  said  with  a  smile,  it  might  be 
a  comfort  to  some  of  them  to  know  that 
the  comet  was  going  away.  He  could  not 
say  for  himself  that  he  should  not  be  sorry 
when  it  disappeared ;  for  he  thought  it  a 
very  beautiful  sight,  and  one  which  remind- 
ed every  eye  that  saw  it  how  "  the  heavens 
declare  the  glory  of  God  " ;  and  the  wisest 
men  were  all  agreed  that  it  was  a  sign, 
not  of  any  mischief,  but  of  the  beauty  of 
God's  handiwork  in  the  firmament,  as  the 
Scriptures  call  the  starry  sky.  The  fact 
was,  it  was  found  that  comets  come  round 
regularly,  like  some  of  the  other  stars  and 
om-  own  moon  ;  and  when  a  comet  had  once 


THE    PEOPLE    OF    BLEABURN.  97 

been  seen,  people  of  a  future  time  would 
know  when  to  look  for  it  again,  and  would 
be  too  wise  to  be  afraid  of  it.  But  he  had 
better  tell  them  about  such  things  at  anoth- 
er time,  when  perhaps  they  would  let  their 
children  come  up  to  his  house,  and  look 
through  a  telescope,  —  a  glass  that  magni- 
fied things  so  much,  that  when  they  saw 
the  stars,  they  would  hardly  believe  they 
were  the  same  stars  that  they  saw  every  clear 
night.  Perhaps  they  might  then  think  the 
commonest  star  as  wonderful  as  any  comet. 
Another  reason  why  they  might  hope  for 
better  health  was,  that  people  at  a  distance 
now  knew  more  of  the  distress  of  Bleaburn 
than  they  had  done;  and  he  could  assure 
his  neighbors,  that  supplies  of  nourishing 
food  and  wholesome  clothing  would  be 
lodged  with  the  cordon  till  the  people  of 
the  place  could  once  more  earn  their  own 
living.  Another  reason  why  they  might 
hope  for  better  health  was,  that  they  were 
learning  by  experience  what  was  good  for 
health  and  what  was  bad.  This  was  a  very 
serious  and  important  subject,  on  which  he 
7 


98  SICKNESS    AND    HEALTH    OF 

would  speak  to  them  again  and  again,  on 
Sundays  and  at  all  times,  till  he  had  shown 
them  what  he  thought  about  their  having, 
he  might  almost  say,  their  lives  and  health 
in  their  own  hands.  He  was  sure  that  God 
had  ordered  it  so;  and  he  expected  to  be 
able  to  prove  to  them,  by  and  by,  that 
there  need  to  be  no  fever  in  Bleaburn  if 
they  chose  to  prevent  it.  And  now,  about 
these  Sundays  and  week-days.  He  deeply 
pitied  them  that  they  had  been  cut  off  from 
worship  during  their  time  of  distress.  He 
thought  there  might  be  an  end  to  that  now. 
He  would  not  advise  their  assembling  in 
the  church.  There  were  the  same  reasons 
against  it  that  there  were  two  months  ago ; 
but  there  was  no  place  on  earth  where  men 
might  not  worship  God,  if  they  wished  it. 
If  it  were  now  the  middle  of  summer,  he 
should  say  that  the  spot  they  were  standing 
on  —  even  yet  so  fresh  and  so  sunny  — 
was  the  best  they  could  have ;  but  soon  the 
winter  winds  would  blow,  and  the  cold  rains 
would  come  driving  over  the  hills.  This 
would  not  do;  but  there  was  a  warm  nook 


THE    PEOPLE    OF    BLEABURN.  99 

in  the  hollow,  —  the  crag  behind  the  mill,  — 
where  there  was  shelter  from  the  east  and 
north,  and  the  warmest  sunshine  ever  felt 
in  the  hollow,  —  too  hot  in  summer,  but 
very  pleasant  now.  There  he  proposed  to 
read  prayers  three  times  a  week,  at  an  hour 
which  should  be  arranged  according  to  the 
convenience  of  the  greatest  number;  and 
there  he  would  perform  service  and  preach 
a  sermon  on  Sundays,  when  the  weather  per- 
mitted. He  should  have  been  inclined  to 
ask  Farmer  Neale  for  one  of  his  barns,  or 
to  propose  to  meet  even  in  his  kitchen  ;  but 
he  found  his  neighbors  still  feared  that 
meeting  anywhere  but  in  the  open  air 
would  spread  the  fever.  He  did  not  him- 
self believe  that  one  person  gave  the  fever 
to  another;  but  as  long  as  his  neighbors 
thought  so,  he  would  not  ask  them  to  do 
what  might  make  them  afraid.  Then  there 
was  a  settling  what  hours  should  be  ap- 
pointed for  worship  at  the  crag;  and  the 
mourners  came  trooping  down  into  the  hol- 
low, with  brightened  eyes,  and  freshened 
faces,  and  altogether  much  less  like  mourn- 
ers than  when  they  went  up. 


100  SICKNESS    AND    HEALTH    OF 

Before  night,  INIr.  Kirby  had  visited  every 
sick  person  in  the  place,  in  company  with 
the  doctor.  The  poor  doctor  would  hardly 
have  ventured  to  go  his  round  without  the 
assistance  of  some  novelty  that  might  di- 
vert the  attention  of  the  people  from  his 
atrocities.  Mr.  Kirby  did  not  attempt  to 
get  rid  of  the  subject.  He  told  the  discon- 
tented, to  their  faces,  that  the  doctor  knew 
his  business  better  than  they  did ;  and  bade 
them  remember  that  it  was  not  the  doctor, 
but  themselves,  that  had  set  fire  to  spirits 
of  wine,  or  something  of  that  sort,  in  the 
middle  of  the  street,  whereby  a  woman  was 
in  imminent  danger  of  being  burnt  to  death  ; 
and  that  their  outrage  on  the  good  fame 
and  property  of  a  gentleman  who  had  worn 
himself  half  dead  with  fatigue  and  anxiety 
on  their  account  might  yet  cost  them  very 
dear,  if  it  were  not  understood  that  they 
were  so  oppressed  with  sorrow  and  want 
that  they  did  not  know  what  they  were 
about.  Iliri  consultations  with  the  doctor 
from  house  to  house,  and  liis  evident  def- 
erence to  him  in  regard  to  matters  of  health 


THE  PEOPLE  OF  BLEABURN.        101 

and  sickness,  wrought  a  great  change  in  a 
few  hours ;  and  the  effect  was  prodigiously 
increased  when  Mrs.  Kirby,  herself  a  sur- 
geon's daughter,  and  no  stranger  in  a  sur- 
gery, offered  her  daily  assistance  in  making 
up  the  medicines,  and  administering  such 
as  might  be  misused  by  those  who  could 
not  read  the  labels. 

"  That  is  what  the  Good  Lady  does, 
when  she  can  get  out  at  the  right  time," 
observed  some  pne  ;  "  but  now  poor  Jem  is 
down,  and  his  mother  hardly  up  again  yet, 
it  is  not  every  day,  «,s  she  says,  that  she 
can  go  so  far  out  of  call." 

"  Who  is  this  Good  Lady  ?  "  inquired 
Mr.  Kirby.  "  I  have  been  hardly  twenty- 
four  hours  in  this  place,  and  I  seem  to 
have  heard  her  name  fifty  times ;  and  yet 
nobody  seems  able  to  say  who  she  is." 

"  She  almost  overpowers  their  faculties,  I 
believe,"  replied  the  doctor;  "and,  indeed, 
it  is  not  very  easy  to  look  upon  her  as  upon 
any  other  young  lady.  It  comes  easier  to 
one's  tongue  to  call  her  an  angel  than  to 
introduce  her  as  Miss  Mary  Pickard,  from 
America." 


102  SICKNESS    AND    HEALTH    OF 

When  he  had  told  what  he  knew  of  her, 
the  Kirbys  said,  in  the  same  breath, 

"  Let  us  go  and  see  her."  And  the  doctor 
showed  them  the  way  to  Widow  Johnson's, 
wliere  poor  Jem  was  languishing,  in  that 
state  which  is  so  affecting  to  witness,  when 
he  who  has  no  intellect  seems  to  have  more 
power  of  patience  than  he  who  has  most 
The  visitors  arrived  at  a  critical  moment, 
however,  when  poor  Jem's  distress  was  very 
great,  and  his  mother's  hardly  less.  There 
lay  the  Good  Lady  on  the  ground,  doubled 
up  in  a  strange  sort  of  way  ;  Mrs.  Johnson 
trying  to  go  to  her,  but  unable ;  and  Jem, 
on  his  bed  in  the  closet  within,  crying  be- 
cause something  was  clearly  the  matter. 

"  What  's  to  do  now  ?  "  exclaimed  the 
doctor. 

Mary  laughed  as  she  answered,  "  O,  noth- 
ing, but  that  I  can't  get  up.  I  don't  know 
how  I  fell,  and  I  can't  get  up.  But  it  is 
mere  fatigue,  —  want  of  sleep.  Do  con- 
vince Aunty  that  I  have  not  got  the  fever." 

"  Let 's  see,"  said  the  doctor.  Then,  after 
a  short  study  of  his  new  patient,  he  assured 


THE  PEOPLE  OF  BLEABURN.        103 

Mrs.  Johnson  that  he  saw  no  signs  of  fever 
about  her  niece.  She  had  had  enough  of 
nursing  for  the  present,  and  now  she  must 
have  rest. 

"  That  is  just  it,"  said  Mary.  "  If  some- 
body will  put  something  under  me  here, 
and  just  let  me  sleep  for  a  few  days,  I  shall 
do  very  well." 

"  Not  there,  Miss  Pickard,"  said  Mrs. 
Kirby,  "  you  must  be  brought  to  our  house, 
where  every  thing  will  be  quiet  about  you ; 
and  then  you  may  sleep  on  till  Christmas, 
if  you  will." 

Mary  felt  the  kindness ;  but  she  evident- 
ly preferred  remaining  where  she  was ;  and, 
with  due  consideration,  she  was  indulged. 
She  did  not  wish  to  be  carried  through  the 
street,  so  that  the  people  might  see  that  the 
Good  Lady  was  down  at  last ;  and  besides, 
she  felt  as  if  she  should  die  by  the  way, 
though  really  believing  she  should  do  very 
well  if  only  let  alone.  She  was  allowed  to 
order  things  just  as  she  liked.  A  mattress 
was  put  under  her  on  the  floor.  Ann  War- 
render  came  and  undressed  her,  lifting  her 


104  SICKNESS    AND    HEALTH    OF 

limbs  as  if  she  was  an  infant,  for  she  could 
not  move  them  herself;  and  daily  was  she 
refreshed,  as  she  had  taught  others  to  re- 
fresh those  who  cannot  move  from  their 
beds.  Every  morning  the  doctor  came,  and 
agieed  with  her  that  there  was  nothing  in 
the  world  the  matter  with  her;  that  she  had 
only  to  lie  still  till  she  felt  the  wish  to  get 
up;  and  every  day  came  Mrs.  Kirby  to 
take  a  look  at  her,  if  her  eyes  were  closed ; 
and  if  she  was  able  to  talk  and  listen,  to 
tell  her  how  the  sick  were  faring,  and  what 
were  the  prospects  of  Bleabarn.  After 
these  visits,  something  good  was  often 
found  near  the  pillow;  some  firm  jelly,  or 
particularly  pure  arrowroot,  or  the  like ; 
odd  things  to  be  dropped  by  the  fairies  ; 
but  Mrs.  Kirby  said  the  neighbors  liked  to 
think  that  the  Good  Lady  was  waited  on 
by  the  Good  People. 

Another  odd  thing  was,  that  for  several 
days  Mary  could  not  sleep  at  all.  She 
would  have  liked  it,  and  she  needed  it  ex- 
tremely, and  the  window-curtain  was  drawn, 
and  every  body  was  very  quiet,  and  even 


THE  TEOPLE  OF  BLEABURN.        105 

poor  Jem  caught  tlie  trick  of  quietness,  and 
lay  immovable  for  hours,  when  the  door  of 
his  closet  was  open,  watching  to  see  her 
sleep.  But  she  could  not.  She  felt,  what 
was  indeed  true,  that  Aunty's  large  black 
eyes  were  for  ever  fixed  upon  her  ;  and  she 
could  not  but  be  aware  that  the  matter  of 
the  very  first  public  concern  in  Bleaburn 
was,  that  she  should  go  to  sleep  ;  and  this 
was  enough  to  prevent  it.  At  last,  when 
people  were  getting  frightened,  and  even 
the  doctor  told  Mr.  Kirby  that  he  should  be 
glad  to  correct  this  insomnolence,  the  news 
went  softly  along  the  street  one  day,  told  in 
whispers  even  at  the  further  end,  that  the 
Good  Lady  was  asleep.  The  children  were 
warned  that  they  must  keep  within  doors, 
or  go  up  to  the  brow  to  play ;  there  must 
be  no  noise  in  the  hollow.  The  dogs  were 
not  allowed  to  bark,  nor  the  ducks  to 
quack ;  and  Farmer  Neale's  carts  were  on 
no  account  to  go  below  the  Plough  and 
Harrow.  The  patience  of  all  persons  who 
liked  to  make  a  noise  was  tried  and  proved, 
for  nobody  broke  the  rule ;  and  when  Mary 


106  SICKNESS    AND    HEALTH    OF 

once  began  sleeping,  it  seemed  as  if  she 
would  never  stop.  She  could  hardly  keep 
awake  to  eat,  or  to  be  washed ;  and  as  for 
having  her  hair  brushed,  that  is  always 
drowsy  work,  and  she  could  never  look  be- 
fore her  for  two  minutes  together  while  it 
was  done.  She  thought  it  all  very  ridicu- 
lous,  and  laughed  at  her  own  laziness,  and 
then,  before  the  smile  was  off  her  lips,  she 
had  sunk  on  her  pillow  and  was  asleep 
again. 


THE  PEOPLE  OF  BLEABURN.        107 


CHAPTER    VII 


It  was  a  regular  business  now  for  three 
or  four  of  the  boys  of  Bleaburn  to  go  up  to 
the  brow  every  morning  to  bring  down  the 

stores  from  O ,  which  were  daily  left 

there  under  the  care  of  the  watch.  Mr. 
Kirby  had  gi-eat  influence  already  with  the 
boys  of  Bleaburn.  He  found  plenty  for 
them  to  do,  and,  when  they  were  very  hun- 
gry with  running  about,  he  gave  them 
wholesome  food  to  satisfy  their  healthy  ap- 
petite. He  said,  he  and  Mrs.  Kirby  and 
the  doctor  worked  hard,  and  they  could  not 
let  any  body  be  idle  but  those  who  were  ill : 
and,  now  that  the  regular  work  and  wages 
of  the  place  were  suspended,  he  arranged 
matters  after  his  own  sense  of  the  needs  of 
the  people.      The  boys  who  survived  and 


108  SICKNESS    AND    HEALTH    OF 

were  in  licalih,  foniu^d  a  sort  of  regiment 
under  his  orders,  and  they  certainly  never 
liked  work  so  well  before.  Every  little  fel- 
low felt  his  own  consequence,  and  was 
aware  of  his  own  responsibility.  A  certain 
number,  as  has  been  said,  went  up  to  the 
brow  to  bring  down  the  stores.  A  certain 
number  were  to  succeed  each  other  at  the 
doctor's  door,  from  hour  to  hour,  to  carry 
medicines,  that  the  sick  might  neither  be 
kept  waiting,  nor  be  liable  to  be  served 
with  the  wrong  medicine,  from  too  many 
sorts  being  carried  in  a  basket  together. 
Others  attended  upon  Warrender,  with  pail 
and  brush,  and  helped  him  with  his  lime- 
washing.  At  first  it  w^as  difficult,  as  has 
been  said,  to  induce  the  lads  to  volunteer 
for  this  service,  and  Mr.  Kirby  directed 
much  argument  and  persuasion  towards 
their  supposed  fear  of  entering  the  cottages 
where  people  were  lying  sick.  This  was 
not  the  reason,  however,  as  Warrender  ex- 
plained, with  downcast  eyes,  when  Mr. 
Kirby  wondered  what  ailed  the  lads,  that 
they  ran  all  sorts  of  dangers  all  day  long, 
and  shirked  this  one. 


THE  PEOPLE  OF  BLEABURN.        109 

"'T  is  not  the  clanger,  I  fancy,  Sir,"  said 
Warrender;  "they  are  not  so  much  afraid 
of  the  fever  as  of  going  with  me,  I  'm  sorry 
to  say." 

"  Afraid  of  you ! "  said  Mr.  Kirby,  laugh- 
ing.    "  What  harm  could  you  do  them  ?  " 

"'T  is  my  temper.  Sir,  I  'm  afraid." 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  your  temper  ? 
I  see  nothing  amiss  with  it." 

"  And  I  hope  you  never  may.  Sir :  but  I 
can't  answer  for  myself,  though  at  this  mo- 
ment I  know  the  folly  of  such  passion  as 
these  lads  have  seen  in  me.  Sir,  it  has 
been  my  way  to  be  violent  with  them  ;  and 
I  don't  wonder  they  slink  away  from  me. 
But—" 

"  I  am  really  quite  surprised,"  said  Mr. 
Kirby.  "  This  is  all  news  to  me.  I  should 
have  said  you  were  a  remarkably  staid, 
quiet,  persevering  man;  and,  I  am  sure, 
very  kind-hearted." 

"  You  have  seen  us  all  at  such  a  time, 
you  know.  Sir !  It  is  not  only  the  misfor- 
tunes of  the  time  that  sober  us,  but  when 
there  is  so  much  to  do  for  one's  neighbors, 


110  SICKNESS    AND    HEALTH    OF 

one's  mind  does  not  want  to  be  in  a  pas- 
sion, —  so  to  speak." 

"  Very  true.  The  best  part  of  us  is 
roused,  and  puts  down  the  worse.  I  quite 
agree  with  you,  Warrender." 

The  boys  were  not  long  in  learning  that 
there  was  nothing  now  to  fear  from  War- 
render.  No  one  was  sent  staggering  from 
a  box  on  the  ear.  No  hair  was  ever  pulled ; 
nor  was  any  boy  ever  shaken  in  his  jacket. 
Instead  of  doing  such  things,  Warrender 
made  companions  of  his  young  assistants, 
taught  them  to  do  well  whatever  they  put 
their  hands  to,  and  made  them  willing  and 
happy.  While  two  or  three  thus  waited 
on  him,  others  carried  home  the  clean  linen 
that  his  daughter  and  a  neighbor  or  two 
were  frequently  ready  to  send  out:  and 
they  daily  changed  the  water  in  the  tubs 
where  the  foul  linen  was  deposited.  Oth- 
ers, again,  swept  and  washed  down  the 
long,  steep  street,  maknig  it  look  almost  as 
clean  as  if  it  belonged  to  a  Dutch  village. 
After  the  autumn  pig-killing,  there  were 
few  or  no  more  pigs.     The  poor  suflarers 


THE  PEOPLE  OF  BLEABURN.        Ill 

could  not  attend  to  them  ;  could  not  aiTord, 
indeed,  to  buy  them ;  and  had  scarcely  any 
food  to  give  them.  Though  this  was  a  to- 
ken of  poverty,  it  was  hardly  to  be  lament- 
ed in  itself,  under  the  circumstances ;  for 
there  is  no  foulness  whatever,  no  nastiness 
that  is  to  be  found  among  the  abodes  of 
men  so  dangerous  to  health  as  that  of  pig- 
sties. There  is  mismanagement  in  this. 
People  take  for  granted  that  the  pig  is  a 
dirty  animal,  and  give  him  no  chance  of 
being  clean ;  whereas,  if  they  would  try  the 
experiment  of  keeping  his  house  swept,  and 
putting  his  food  always  in  one  place,  and 
washing  him  with  soap  and  water  once  a 
week,  they  would  find  that  he  knows  how 
to  keep  his  pavement  clean,  and  that  he 
runs  grunting  to  meet  his  washing  with  a 
satisfaction  not  to  be  mistaken.  Such  was 
the  conclusion  of  the  boys  who  undertook 
the  purification  of  the  two  or  three  pigs 
that  remained  in  Bleaburn.  As  for  the 
empty  sties,  they  were  cleaner  than  many 
of  the  cottages.  After  a  conversation  with 
Mr.  Kirby,  Farmer   Neale   bought  all  the 


112  SICKNESS    AND    HEALTH    OF 

dirt-heaps  for  iiiaiinre;  and  in  a  few  days 
they  were  all  trundled  away  in  barrows,  — 
even  to  the  stable-manure  from  the  Plough 
and  Harrow,  —  and  heaped  together  at  the 
farm,  and  well  shut  down  with  a  casing  of 
earth,  beat  firm  with  spades.  Boys  really 
like  such  work  as  this,  when  they  are  put 
upon  it  in  the  right  way.  They  were  'less 
dirty  than  they  would  have  been  with  tum- 
bling about  and  quan-elling  and  cufling  in 
the  filthy  street;  in  a  finer  glow  of  exer- 
cise ;  with  a  far  more  wholesome  appetite ; 
and  far  more  satisfaction  in  eating,  because 
they  had  earned  their  food.  Moreover, 
they  began  to  feel  themselves  little  friends 
of  the  grown  people,  —  of  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Kirby,  and  the  Doctor,  and  the  Warrenders, 
—  instead  of  a  sort  of  reptiles,  or  other 
plague  ;  and  Mr.  Kirby  astonished  them  so 
by  a  bit  of  amusement  now  and  then,  when 
he  had  time,  that  they  would  have  called 
him  a  conjurer,  if  he  had  not  been  a  cler- 
gyman. He  made  a  star  —  any  star  they 
pleased  —  as  large  as  the  comet,  just  by 
making  them   look  at  it  through   a  tube; 


THE  PEOPLE  OF  BLEABURN.        113 

and  he  showed  them  how  he  took  a  drop 
of  foul  water  from  a  stinking  pool,  and  put 
it  between  glasses  in  a  hole  in  his  window- 
shutter  ;  and  how  the  drop  became  like  a 
pond,  and  was  found  to  be  swarming  with 
loathsome  live  creatures,  swimming  about, 
and  trying  to  swallow  each  other.  After 
these  exhibitions,  it  is  true  the  comet  seemed 
much  less  wonderful  and  terrible  than  be- 
fore;  but  then  the  drop  of  water  was  infi- 
nitely more  so.  The  lads  studied  Mr.  Kir- 
by's  cistern,  —  so  carefully  covered,  and  so 
regularly  cleaned  out ;  and  they  learned 
how  the  water  he  drank  at  dinner  was  fil- 
tered ;  and  then  they  went  and  scoured  out 
the  few  water-tubs  there  were  in  the  village, 
and  consulted  their  neighbors  as  to  how 
the  public  of  Bleaburn  could  be  persuaded 
not  to  throw  filth  and  refuse  into  the  stream 
at  the  upper  part,  defiling  it  for  those  who 
lived  lower  down. 

One  morning  at  the  beginning  of  Decem- 
ber, —  on  such  a  morning  as  was  now  sad- 
ly frequent,  drizzly,  and  far  too  warm  for 
the  season, —  the  lads  who  went  up  to  the 


114  SICKNESS    AND    HEALTH    OF 

brow  saw  the  same  sight  that  had  been 
visible  in  the  same  place  one  evening  in 
the  preceding  August.  There  was  a  chaise, 
and  an  anxious  postboy,  and  a  lady  talk- 
ing with  one  of  the  cordon.  Mr.  Kirby 
had  learned  what  friends  Mary  Pickard  had 
in  England,  and  which  of  them  lived  near- 
est, and  he  had  taken  the  liberty  of  writing 
to  declare  the  condition  of  the  Good  Lady. 
His  letter  brought  the  friend,  Mrs.  Hender- 
son, who  came  charged  with  affectionate 
messages  to  Mary  from  her  young  daugh- 
ters, and  a  fixed  determination  not  to  re- 
tarn  without  the  invalid. 

"  To  think,"  as  she  said  to  Mary  when 
she  appeared  by  the  side  of  her  mattress, 
"that  you  should  be  in  England,  suffering 
in  this  way,  and  we  not  have  any  idea 
what  you  were  going  through  !  " 

Mary  smiled,  and  said  she  had  gone 
through  nothing  terrible  on  her  own  ac- 
count. She  might  have  been  at  Mr.  Kir- 
by's  for  three  weeks  past,  but  that  she  really 
preferred  being  where  she  was. 

"  Do  not  ask  Ikt  now.  Madam,  where*  she 


THE  PEOPLE  OF  BLEABURN.        115 

likes  to  be,"  said  Mr.  Kirby,  who  had  been 
brought  down  the  street  by  the  bustle  of  a 
stranger's  arrival.  "  Do  not  consult  her  at 
all,  but  take  her  away,  and  nurse  her  well." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  Doctor ;  "  lay  her  in  a 
good  air,  and  let  her  sleep,  and  feed  her 
well ;  and  she  will  soon  come  round.  She 
is  better,  even  here." 

"  Madam,"  said  Widow  Johnson's  feeble 
but  steady  voice,  "  be  to  her  what  she  has 
been  to  us ;  raise  her  up  to  what  she  was 
when  I  first  heard  her  step  upon  those 
stairs,  and  we  shall  say  you  deserve  to  be 
her  friend." 

"  You  will  go,  will  not  you  ?  "  whispered 
Mrs.  Kirby  to  Mary.  "  You  will  let  us 
manage  it  all  for  you  ?  " 

"  Do  what  you  please  with  me,"  was  the 
reply.  "  Y^'ou  know  best  how  to  get  me 
well  soonest.  Only  let  me  tell  Aunty  that 
I  will  come  again  as  soon  as  I  am  able." 

"  Better  not,"  said  the  prudent  Mrs.  Kir- 
by. "  There  is  no  saying  what  may  be  the 
condition  of  this  place  by  the  spring.  And 
it  might  keep  Mrs.  Johnson  in  a  state  of 


116  SICKNESS    AND    HEALTH    OF 

expectation  not  fit  for  one  so  feeble.  Bet- 
ter not." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Mary. 

Mrs.  Kirby  thought  of  something  that 
her  husband  had  said  of  Mary ;  that  he  had 
never  seen  any  one  with  such  power  of 
will  and  command  so  docile.  She  merely 
promised  her  aunt  frequent  news  of  her; 
agreed  with  those  who  doubted  whether 
she  could  bear  the  jolting  of  any  kind  of 
carriage  on  the  road  up  to  the  brow;  ad- 
mitted that,  though  she  could  now  stand, 
she  could  not  walk  across  the  room  ;  al- 
lowed herself  to  be  carried  on  her  mattress 
in  a  carpet,  by  four  men,  up  to  the  chaise  ; 
and  nodded  in  reply  to  a  remark  made  by 
one  little  girl  to  another  in  the  street,  and 
which  the  doctor  wished  she  had  not  heard, 
that  she  looked  "  rarely  bad." 

The  landlady  at  O seemed,  by  her 

countenance,  to  have  much  the  same  opin- 
ion of  Mary's  looks,  when  she  herself 
brought  out  the  glass  of  wine,  for  which 
Mrs.  Henderson  stopped  her  chaise  at  the 
door  of  the    Cross    Keys.      The    landlady 


THE  PEOPLE  OF  BLEABURN.        117 

brought  it  herself,  because  none  of  her 
people  would  give  as  much  as  a  glass  of 
cold  water,  hand  to  hand  with  any  one 
who  came  from  Bleaburn.  The  landlady 
stood  shaking  her  head,  and  saying  she 
had  done  the  best  she  could;  she  had 
warned  the  young  lady  in  time. 

"But  you  were  quite  out  in  your  warn- 
ing," said  Mary.  "  You  were  sure  I  should 
have  the  fever :  but  I  have  not." 

"  You  have  not !  " 

"  I  have  had  no  disease,  —  no  complaint 
whatever.     I  am  only  weak  from  fatigue." 

"  It  is  quite  true,"  said  Mrs.  Henderson, 
as  the  hostess  turned  to  her  for  confirnja- 
tion.  "  Good  wine  like  this,  the  fresh  air 
of  our  moors,  and  the  easy  sleep  that  comes 
to  Good  Ladies  like  her,  are  the  only  med- 
icines she  wants." 

The  landlady  curtsied  low,  —  said  the 
payment  made  should  supply  a  glass  of 
wine  to  somebody  at  Bleaburn,  and  bade 
the  driver  proceed.  After  a  mile  or  two, 
he  turned  his  head,  touched  his  hat,  and 
directed  the  ladies'  attention  to  a  bottle  of 


118  SICKNESS    AND    HEALTH    OF 

wine,  with  IoosciuhI  cork,  and  a  cnj),  which 
the  hostess  had  contrived  to  smuggle  into 
the  j)ocket  of  the  chaise.  She  was  sure 
the  young  hidy  would  want  some  wine  be- 
fore they  stopped. 

*' How  kind  every  body  is  I  "  said  Mary, 
with  swimming  eyes.  Mrs.  Henderson 
cleared  her  throat,  and  looked  out  of  the 
window  on  her  side. 


THE  PEOPLE  OF  BLEABURN.        119 


CHAPTER   VIII. 


The  spectacle  of  carrying  the  Good 
Lady  up  to  the  brow  was  more  terrify- 
ing to  the  people  of  Bleaburn  than  any 
of  the  funerals  they  had  seen  creeping 
along  by  the  same  path,  —  more  even  than 
the  passage  of  the  laden  cart,  with  the  pall 
over  it,  on  the  morning  of  the  opening  of 
the  new  burying-ground.  The  people  of 
Bleaburn,  extremely  ignorant,  were  natu- 
rally extremely  superstitious.  It  was  not 
only  the  very  ignorant  who  were  supersti- 
tious. The  fever  itself  was  never  sup- 
posed to  be  more  catching  than  a  mood 
of  superstition ;  and  so  it  now  appeared 
in  Bleaburn.  For  many  weeks  past  the 
Good  Lady  had  been  regarded  as  a  sort 
of    talisman    in    the    people's    possession. 


120  SICKNESS    AND    HEALTH    OF 

She  breathed  out  such  cheerfuhiess  wher- 
ever she  turned  her  face,  that  it  seemed  as 
if  the  place  could  not  go  quite  to  destruc- 
tion while  she  was  in  it.  Some  who  would 
not  have  admitted  to  themselves  that  they 
held  such  an  impression,  were  yet  infected 
with  the  common  dismay,  as  well  as  with 
the  sorrow  of  parting  with  her.  If  Mary 
had  had  the  least  idea  of  the  probable  ef- 
fect of  her  departure,  she  would  have  been 
less  admired  by  the  Kirbys  for  her  docility, 
for  she  would  certainly  have  insisted  on 
staying  where  she  was. 

"  I  declare  I  don't  know  what  to  do," 
the  doctor  confessed  in  confidence  to  the 
clergyman.  "  Every  patient  I  have  is 
drooping,  and  the  people  in  the  streets 
look  like  creatures  under  doom.  The 
comet  was  bad  enough ;  and,  before  we 
have  well  done  with  it,  here  is  a  panic 
which  is  ten  times  worse." 

"  I  tried  to  lend  a  hand  to  help  you 
against  the  comet,"  replied  Mr.  Kirby.  "  I 
think  I  may  be  of  some  use  again  now. 
Shall  I  tell  them  it  is  a  clear  case  of  idol- 
atry ?  " 


THE  PEOPLE  OF  BLEABURN.        121 

"  Why,  it  is  in  fact  so,  Mr.  Kirby ;  but 
yet  I  shrink  from  appearing  to  cast  the 
slightest  disrespect  on  her." 

"Of  course  ;  of  course.  The  thing  I 
want  to  show  them  is,  what  she  would 
think, —  how  shocked  she  would  be  if  she 
knew  the  state  of  mind  she  left  behind." 

"  Ah !  if  you  can  do  that !  " 

"  I  will  see  about  it.  Now  tell  me  how 
we  are  going  on." 

The  doctor  replied  by  a  look,  which 
made  Mr.  Kirby  shake  his  head.  Neither 
of  them  liked  to  say  in  words  how  awful 
was  the  state  of  things. 

"  It  is  such  weather,  you  see,"  said  the 
doctor.  "Damp  and  disagreeable  as  it  is, 
this  December  is  as  warm  as  September." 

"  Five-and-twenty  sorts  of  flowers  out  in 
my  garden,"  observed  Mr.  Kirby.  "  I  set 
the  boys  to  count  them  yesterday.  We 
shall  have  as  many  as  that  on  Christmas- 
day.     A  thing  unheard  of  !  " 

"  There  will  be  no  Christmas  kept  this 
year,  surely,"  said  the  doctor. 

"  I  don't  know  that.    My  wife  and  I  were 


122  SICKNESS    AND   HEALTH    OF 

talking  it  over  yesterday.     We  think 

Well,  my  boy,"  to  a  little  boy  who  stood 
pulling  his  forelock,  "what  have  yoii  to 
say  to  me?  I  am  wanted  at  home,  am  I? 
Is  Mrs.  Kirby  there?" 

The  doctor  heard  him  say  to  himself, 
"  Thank  God ! "  when  they  saw  the  lady 
coming  out  of  a  cottage  near.  The  doctor 
had  long  suspected  that  the  clergyman  and 
his  wife  were  as  sensible  of  one  another's 
danger  as  the  most  timid  person  in  Blea- 
burn  was  of  his  own;  and  now  he  was 
sure  of  it.  Henceforth,  he  understood  that 
they  were  never  easy  out  of  one  another's 
sight;  and  that  when  the  clergyman  was 
sent  for  from  the  houses  he  was  passing, 
his  first  idea  always  was  that  his  wife  was 
taken  ill.  It  was  so.  They  were  not  peo- 
ple of  sentiment.  They  had  settled  their 
case  with  readiness  and  decision,  when  it 
first  presented  itself  to  them ;  and  they 
never  looked  back.  But  it  did  not  follow 
that  they  did  not  feel.  They  agreed,  with 
the  smallest  possible  delay,  that  they  ought 
to  succeed  to  the  chargt^  of  Bleaburn  on 


TIIK    PEOPLE    OF    BLEABURN.  123 

Mr.  Finch'r.  death;  that  they  ought  to 
place  their  boys  at  school,  and  their  two 
girls  with  their  aniit,  till  Bleaburn  should 
be  healthy  again ;  and  that  they  must 
stand  or  fall  by  the  duty  they  had  under- 
taken. As  for  separating,  that  was  an  idea 
mentioned  only  to  be  dismissed.  They 
now  nodded  across  the  little  street,  as  Mrs. 
Kirby  proceeded  on  her  round  of  visits,  and 
her  husband  went  home,  to  see  who  want- 
ed him  there. 

In  the  corner  of  the  little  porch  was  a 
man  sitting,  crouching  and  cowering  as  if 
in  bodily  pain.  Mr.  Kirby  went  up  to  him, 
stooped  down  to  see  his  face  (but  it  was 
covered  with  his  hands),  and  at  last  ven- 
tured to  remove  his  hat.  Then  the  man 
looked  up.  It  was  a  square,  hard  face, 
which,  from  its  make,  would  have  seemed 
immovable ;  but  it  was  any  thing  but  that 
now.  It  is  a  strange  sight,  the  working  of 
emotion  in  a  countenance  usually  as  hard 
as  marble! " 

"  Neale !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Kirby.  "  Some- 
body ill  at  the  farm,  I  am  afraid." 


124  SICKNESS    AND    HEALTH    OF 

"  Not  yet,  Sir ;  not  yet,  Mr.  Kirby.  But 
Lord  save  us  I  we  know  notliing  of  how 
poon  it  may  be  so." 

"  Exactly  so :  that  has  been  the  case  of 
every  man,  woman,  and  child,  hour  by 
hour,  since  Adam  fell." 

"  Yer<,  Sir;  but  the  present  time  is  some- 
thing different  from  that.     I  came.  Sir,  to 

say I  came,   Mr.    Kirby,   because  I 

can  get  no  peace  or  rest,  day  or  night;  for 
thoughts,  Sir;  for  thoughts." 

Mr.  Kirby  glanced  round  him.  "  Come 
in,"  said  he  ;  "  come  into  my  study." 

Neale  followed  him  in  ;  but  instead  of 
sitting  down,  he  walked  straight  to  the 
window,  and  seemed  to  be  looking  into  the 
garden.  Mr.  Kirby,  who  had  been  on  foot 
all  the  morning,  sat  down  and  waited, 
shaving  away  at  a  pen  meanwhile. 

"  On  Sunday,  Sir,"  said  Neale  at  last,  in 
a  whispering  kind  of  voice,  "  you  read  that 
I  have  kept  back  the  hire  of  the  laborers 
that  reaped  down  my  fields,  and  that  their 
cry  has  entered  into  the  ears  of  the  Lord." 

"  That  you  kept  back  the  hire  of  the  la- 


THE  PEOPLE  OF  BLEABURN.        125 

borer  ?  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Kirby,  quickly  turn- 
ing in  his  seat,  so  as  to  face  his  visitor. 
He  laid  his  hand  on  the  pocket  Bible  on 
the  table,  opened  at  the  Epistle  of  James, 
and,  with  his  finger  on  the  line,  walked  to 
the  window  with  it. 

"  Yes,  Sir,  that  is  it,"  said  Neale.  «  I 
would  return  the  hire  I  kept  back,  —  (1 
can't  exactly  say  by  fraud,  for  it  was  from 
hardness,)  —  I  would  pay  it  all  willingly 
now;  but  the  men  are  dead.  The  fever 
has  left  but  a  few  of  them.*' 

"  I  see,"  said  Mr.  Kirby.  "  I  see  how  it 
is.  You  think  the  fever  is  dogging  your 
heels,  because  the  cries  of  your  laborers 
have  entered  into  the  ears  of  the  Lord. 
You  want  to  buy  off  the  complaints  of  the 
dead,  and  the  anger  of  God,  by  spending 
now  on  the  living.  You  are  afraid  of  dy- 
ing ;  and  you  would  rather  part  with  your 
money,  dearly  as  you  love  it,  than  die ;  and 
so  you  are  planning  to  bribe  God  to  let 
you  live." 

"  Is  not  that  rather  hard.  Sir  ?  " 

"  Hard  ?  —  Is  it  true  ?  that  is  the  ques- 
tion." 


126  SICKNESS    AND    HEALTH    OF 

When  they  came  to  look  closely  into  the 
matter,  it  was  clear  enough.  Neale,  driven 
from  his  accustomed  metliods  and  employ- 
ments, and  from  his  profits,  and  all  his  out- 
ward reliances,  was  adrift  and  panic-strick- 
en. When  the  Good  Lady  was  carried 
out  of  the  hollow,  the  last  security  seemed 
gone,  and  the  place  appeared  to  be  deliv- 
ered over  to  God's  wrath ;  his  share  of 
which,  his  conscience  showed  him  to  be 
pointed  out  in  the  words  of  Scripture  which 
had  so  impressed  his  mind,  and  which 
were  ringing  in  his  ears,  as  he  said,  day 
and  night. 

"  As  for  the  Good  Lady,"  said  Mr.  Kir- 
by,  "  I  am  sure  I  hope  she  will  never  hear 
how  some  of  the  people  here  regard  her, 
after  all  she  has  done  for  them.  If  any 
thing  could  bow  her  spirit,  it  would  be 
that."  Seeing  Neale  stare  in  surprise,  he 
went  on.  "  One  would  think  she  was  a 
kind  of  witch  or  sorceress;  that  there  was 
some  sort  of  magic  about  it;  instead  of 
her  being  a  sensible,  kind-hearted,  fearless 
woman,  who  knows  how  to  nurse,  and  is 


THE  PEOPLE  OF  BLEABURN.        127 

not  afraid  to  do  it  when  it  is  most  want- 
ed." 

"  Don't  you  think,  then,  Sir,  that  God 
sent  her  to  us  ?  " 

"  Certainly ;  as  he  sent  the  doctor,  and 
my  wife  and  me :  as  he  sends  people  to 
each  other  whenever  they  meet.  I  am  sure 
you  never  heard  the  Good  Lady  say  that 
she  was  specially  sent." 

"  She  is  so  humble,  —  so  natural.  Sir,  — 
she  was  not  likely  to  say  such  a  thing." 

"  Very  true :  and  she  is  too  wise  to  think 
it.  No,  —  there  is  nothing  to  be  frightened 
about  in  her  going  away.  She  could  have 
done  no  good  here,  while  unable  to  walk  or 
sit  up;  and  she  will  recover  better  where 
she  is  gone.  If  she  recovers,  as  I  expect 
she  will,  she  will  come  and  see  us ;  and  I 
shall  think  that  as  good  luck  as  you  can 
do;  not  because  she  carries  luck  about 
with  her,  but  because  there  is  nothing  we 
so  much  want  as  her  example  of  courage, 
and  sense  and  cheerfulness." 

"  To  be  sure,"  said  Neale,  in  a  medita- 
tive way,  "  she  could  not  keep  the  people 
from  dying." 


128  SICKNESS    AND    HEALTH    OF 

"  No,  indeed,"  observed  Mr.  Kirby ;  "  you 
and  some  others  took  care  that  she  should 
not." 

In  reply  to  the  man's  stare  of  amaze- 
ment, Mr.  Kirby  asked, — 

"  Are  not  you  the  proprietor  of  several  of 
the  cotta£:es  in  Bleaburn  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  I  have  seven  altogether." 

"  I  know  them  well,  —  too  well.  Neale, 
your  conscience  accuses  you  about  the  hire 
of  your  laborers  :  but  you  have  done  worse 
things  than  oppress  them  about  wages. 
Part  of  the  mischief  you  may  be  unaware 
of;  but  I  know  you  are  not  of  all.  I  know 
that  Widow  Slaney  speaks  to  you,  year  by 
year,  about  repairing  that  wretched  place 
she  lives  in.  Have  you  done  it  yet  ?  Not 
you !  I  need  not  have  asked ;  and  yet  you 
screw  that  poor  woman  for  her  rent  till  she 
cannot  sleep  at  night  for  thinking  of  it. 
You  know  in  your  heart  that  what  she 
Bays  is  true,  —  that  if  her  son  was  alive, 
—  (and  it  was  partly  your  hardness  that 
sent  him  to  the  wars,  and  to  his  terrible 
fate)  —  " 


THE  PEOPLE  OF  BLEABUKN.        129 

"  Stop,  Sir !  I  cannot  bear  it  I "  ex- 
claimed Neale.  "  Sir,  you  should  not  bear 
so  hard  on  me.  I  have  a  son  that  met 
another  bad  fate  at  the  wars:  and  you 
know  it,  Mr.  Kirby." 

"  To  be  sure  I  do.  And  how  do  you  treat 
him  ?  ^  You  drove  him  away  by  harshness  ; 
and  now  you  say  he  shall  not  come  back, 
because  you  cannot  be  troubled  with  a 
cripple  at  home." 

"  Not  now.  Sir.  I  say  no  such  thing 
now.  When  I  said  that,  I  was  in  a 
bad  mood.  I  mean  to  be  kind  to  him 
now:  and  I  have  told  him  so;  —  that  is, 
I  have  said  so  to  the  girl  he  is  attached 
to." 

"  You  have  ?  You  have  really  seen  her, 
and  shown  respect  to  the  young  people  ?  " 

«  I  have.  Sir." 

"  Well :  that  is  so  far  good.  That  is 
some  foundation  laid  for  a  better  future." 

"  I  should  be  thankful.  Sir,  to  make  up 
for  the  past." 

"  Ah  I  "  said  Mr.  Kirby,  shaking  his  head; 
"that  is  what  can  never  be   done.      The 


130  SICKNESS    AND    HEALTH    OF 

people,  as  you  say,  are  dead  :  tlie  misery  is 
sufl'ered  :  the  mischief  is  done,  and  cannot 
be  undone.  It  is  a  lie,  and  a  very  fatal 
one,  to  say  that  past  sins  may  be  atoned 
for." 

"  O  Mr.  Kirby  !  don't  say  that  I  " 
"  I  must  say  it,  be(5kuse  it  is  true.  You 
said  yourself,  that  you  cannot  make  it  up 
to  those  you  have  injured,  because  the  men 
are  dead.  What  is  that  you  are  saying  ? 
that  you  wish  the  fever  had  taken  you ; 
and  you  could  go.  now  and  shoot  your- 
self? Before  you  dare  to  say  such  things, 
you  should  look  at  the  other  half  of  the 
case.  Is  not  the  future  greater  than  the 
past,  because  we  have  power  over  it  ?  And 
is  there  not  a  good  text  somewhere  about 
forgetting  the  things  that  are  behind,  and 
pressing  forwards  to  those  that  are  be- 
fore?" 

"  O,  Sir  !  if  I  could  forget  the  past !  " 
"  Well,  you  see  you  have  Scripture  war- 
rant   for    trying.      But   then    the    pressing 
forwards  to  better  things  must  go  with  it. 
If  you  forget  the  past,  and  go  on  the  same 


THE  PEOPLE  OF  BLEABURN.        131 

as  ever,  you  might  as  well  be  in  hell  at 
once.  Then,  I  don't  know  that  your  shoot- 
ing yourself  would  do  much  harm  to  any 
body." 

"  But,  Sir,  I  am  willing  to  do  all  I  can. 
I  am  willing  to  spend  all  I  have.  I  am, 
indeed." 

"  Well,  spend  away,  —  money,  time, 
thought,  kindness, —  till  you  can  fairly  say 
that  you  have  done  by  every  body  as  you 
would  be  done  by  !  It  will  be  time  enough 
then  to  think  what  next.  And,  first,  about 
these  cottages  of  yours.  If  no  more  peo- 
ple are  to  die  in  them,  murdered  by  filth 
and  damp,  you  have  no  time  to  lose.  You 
must  not  sit  here,  talking  remorse,  and 
planning  fine  deeds,  but  you  must  set  the 
work  going  this  very  day.  Come !  let  us 
go  and  see." 

Farmer  Neale  walked  rather  feebly 
through  the  hall :  so  Mr.  Kirby  called  him 
into  the  parlor,  and  gave  him  a  glass  of 
wine.  Still,  as  they  went  down  the  street, 
one  man  observed  to  another,  that  Neale 
looked  ten  years  older  in  a  day.    He  looked 


182  SICKNESS    AND    HEALTH    OF 

round  him,  liowcvor,  with  some  signs  of 
returning  spirits,  when  he  saw  the  boys 
at  their  street-cleaning,  and  observed, 
that  hereabouts  things  looked  wholesome 
enough. 

"  Mere  outside  scouring,"  said  Mr.  Kirby. 
"  Better  than  dirt,  as  far  as  it  goes  ;  unless, 
indeed,  it  makes  us  satisfied  to  have  whited 
sepulchres  for  dwellings.  Come  and  see 
the  uncleanness  within." 

Mr.  Kirby  did  not  spare  him.  He  took 
him  through  all  the  seven  cottages,  for 
which  he  had  extorted  extravagant  rents, 
without  fulfilling  any  conditions  on  his 
own  part.  He  showed  him  every  bit  of 
broken  roof,  of  damp  wall,  of  soaked  floor. 
He  showed  him  every  heap  of  filth,  every 
puddle  of  nastiness  caused  by  there  being 
no  drains,  or  other  means  of  removal  of 
refuse.  He  advised  him  to  make  a  note  of 
every  repair  needed  ;  •  and,  when  he  saw 
that  Ncale's  hand  shook  so  that  he  could 
not  write,  took  the  pencil  from  his  hand 
and  did  it  himself.  Two  of  the  seven  cot- 
tages   he   condemned  utterly :    and   Neale 


THE  PEOPLE  OF  BLEABURN.        133 

eagerly  agreed  to  pull  them  down,  and  re- 
build them  with  every  improvement  requi- 
site to  health.  To  the  others  he  would 
supply  what  was  wanting,  and  especially 
drainage.  They  stood  in  such  a  cluster 
that  it  was  practicable  to  drain  them  all 
into  a  gully  of  the  rock,  which,  by  being 
covered  over,  by  a  little  building  up  at  one 
end,  and  a  little  blasting  at  one  side,  might 
be  made  into  a  considerable  tank,  which 
was  to  be  closed  by  a  tight-fitting  and 
very  heavy  slab  at  top.  Mr.  Kirby  con- 
ceded so  much  to  the  worldly  spirit  of  the 
man  he  had  to  deal  wdth,  as  to  point  out 
that  the  manure  thus  saved  would  so  fer- 
tilize his  fields  as  soon  to  repay  the  cost  of 
this  batch  of  drainage.  Neale  did  not  care 
for  this  at  the  moment.  He  was  too  sore 
at  heart  at  the  spectacle  of  these  cottages 
and  their  inmates,  —  too  much  shaken  by 
remorse  and  fear,  —  for  any  idea  of  profit 
and  loss  :  but  Mr.  Kirby  thought  it  as  well 
to  point  out  the  fact,  as  it  might  help  to 
animate  the  hard  man  to  proceed  in  a  good 
work,  when  his  present  melting  mood 
should  be  passing  away. 


13i  SICKNESS    AND    HEALTH    OF 

"  Well :  I  think  this  is  all  we  can  do  to- 
day," said  Mr.  Kirby,  as  they  issued  from 
the  seventh  cottage.     "  The  worst  of  it  is, 

the  workmen  from  O will  not  come, — 

I  am  afraid  no  builder  will  come,  even  to 
make  an  estimat(^,  —  till  we  are  declared 
free  of  fever.  But  there  is  a  good  deal  that 
your  own  people  can  do." 

"  They  can  knock  on  a  few  slates  before 
dark.  Sir  ;  and  those  windows  can  be 
mended  to-day.  1  trust,  Mr.  Kirby,  you 
will  give  me  encouragement ;  and  not  be 
harder  than  you  can  help." 

"  Why,  Neale  ;  the  thing  is  this.  You 
do  not  hold  your  doom  from  my  hand ; 
and  you  ought  not  to  hang  upon  my 
words.  You  come  to  me  to  tell  me  what 
you  feel,  and  to  ask  what  I  think.  All  I 
can  do  is  to  be  honest  with  you,  and  (as 
indeed  I  am)  sorry  for  you.  Time  must 
do  the  rest.  If  you  are  now  acting  well 
from  fear  of  the  fever  only,  time  will  show 
you  how  worthless  is  the  ctlbrt ;  for  you 
will  break  off  as  soon  as  the  fright  has 
passed  away.     If  you   n'ally   mean  to  do 


THE  PEOPLE  OF  BLEABURN.        135 

justly  and  love  mercy,  through  good  and 
bad  fortune,  time  will  prove  you  there,  too : 
and  then  you  will  see  whether  I  am  hard, 
or  whether  we  are  to  be  friends.  This  is 
my  view  of  the  matter." 

Neale  touched  his  hat,  and  was  slowly 
going  away,  when  Mr.  Kirby  followed  him, 
to  say  one  thing  more. 

"  It  may  throw  light  to  yourself,  on  your 
own  state  of  mind,  to  tell  you  that  it  is 
quite  a  usual  one  among  people  who  have 
deeply  sinned,  when  any  thing  happens  to 
terrify  them.  Histories  of  earthquakes  and 
plagues  tell  of  people  thinking  and  feeling 
as  you  do  to-day.  I  dare  say  you  think 
nobody  ever  felt  the  same  before  ;  but  vou 
are  not  the  only  one  in  Bleaburn." 

"  Indeed,  Sir ! "  exclaimed  Neale,  exceed- 
ingly struck. 

"  Far  from  it.  A  person  who  has  often 
robbed  your  poultry-yard,  and  taken  your 
duck-eggs,  thought  that  I  was  preaching  at 
him  last  Sunday ;  though  I  knew  nothing 
about  it.  He  wished  to  make  reparation  ; 
and  he  asked  me  if  I  thought  you  would 


136  SICKNESS    AND    HEALTH    OF 

forgive  hiin.  Do  you  really  wi.sh  to  know 
my  answer  ?  I  told  him  I  thought  you 
WDuld  not :  but  that  he  must  confess  and 
make  reparation,  nevertheless." 

"  You  thought  I  should  not  forgive 
him  ?  " 

"  I  did  :  and  I  think  so  now,  thus  far. 
You  would  say  and  believe  that  you  for- 
gave him  :  but,  at  odd  times,  for  years  to 
come,  you  would  show  him  that  you  had 
not  forgotten  it,  and  remind  him  that  you 
had  a  hold  over  him.  If  not,  —  if  I  do  you 
injustice  in  this,  I  should " 

"  You  do  not,  Sir.  I  am  afraid  what 
you  say  is  very  true." 

"  Well,  just  think  it  over  before  he  comes 
to  you.  This  is  the  only  confession  made 
to  me  which  it  concerns  you  to  hear :  but 
I  assure  you,  I  believe  there  is  not  an  evil- 
doer in  Bleaburn  that  is  not  sick  at  heart 
as  you  are  ;  and  for  the  same  reason.  We 
all  have  our  pains  and  troubles  ;  and  yours 
may  turn  out  a  great  blessing  to  you,  —  or 
a  curse,  according  as  you  persevere  or  give 
way." 


THE  PEOPLE  OF  BLEABURN.        137 

Neale  said  to  himself,  as  he  went  home, 
that  Mr.  Kirby  had  surely  been  very  hard. 
If  a  man  hanged  for  murder  was  filled  with 
hope  and  triumph,  and  certainty  of  glory, 
there  must  be  some  more  speedy  comfort 
for  him  than  the  pastor  had  held  out.  Yet, 
in  his  inmost  heart,  he  felt  that  Mr.  Kirby 
was  right ;  and  he  could  not,  for  the  life  of 
him,  keep  away  from  him.  He  managed 
to  meet  him  every  day.  He  could  seldom 
get  a  word  said  about  the  state  of  his 
mind ;  for  Mr.  Kirby  did  not  approve  of 
people's  talking  of  their  feelings,  —  and  es- 
pecially of  those  connected  with  conscience  : 
but  in  the  deeds  which  issued  from  con- 
scientious feelings,  he  found  cordial  assist- 
ance given.  And  Farmer  Neale  sometimes 
fancied  that  he  could  see  the  time,  —  far  as 
it  was  ahead,  —  when  Mr.  Kirby  and  he 
might  be,  as  the  pastor  had  himself  said, 
friends. 

The  amount  of  confession  and  remorse 
opened  out  to  the  pastor  was  indeed  strik- 
ing, and  more  afiecting  to  him  than  he 
chose  to  show  to  any  body  but  his  wife ; 


188  SICKNESS    AND    HKALTH    OF 

and  not  even  to  lior  did  he  tell  many  of  the 
facts.  The  muslirooui  resolutions  sjiawned 
in  the  heat  of  panic  were  otiensive  and  dis- 
couraging to  him  :  but  there  were  better 
cases  than  these.  A  man  who  had  taken 
into  wrath  with  a  neighbor  about  a  gate, 
and  had  kept  so  for  years,  and  refused  to 
go  to  church  lest  he  should  meet  him  there, 
now  discovered  that  life  is  too  short  for 
strife,  and  too  precarious  to  be  wasted  in 
painful  quarrels.  A  little  girl  whispered  to 
Mr.  Kirby  that  she  had  taken  a  turnip  in 
his  field  without  leave,  and  got  permission 
to  weed  the  great  flower-bed  without  pay, 
to  make  up  for  it.  Simpson  and  Sally 
asked  him  to  marry  them  ;  and  for  poor 
Sally's  sake  he  was  right  glad  to  do  it. 
They  were  straightforward  enough  in  their 
declaration  of  their  reasons.  Simpson 
thought  nobody's  life  was  worth  a  half- 
penny now,  and  he  did  not  wish  to  be 
taken  in  his  sins  :  while  Sally  said  it 
would  be  worse  still  if  the  innocent  baby 
was  taken  for  its  parents'  sin.  They  had 
to  hear  the  publication  of  banns,  at  a  time 


THE  PEOPLE  OF  BLEABURN.        139 

when  other  people  were  thinking  of  any- 
thing but  marriage ;  and  when  the  now 
disused  church  was  unlocked  to  admit 
them  to  the  altar, — just  themselves  and 
the  clerk,  —  it  was  very  dreary  ;  but  they 
immediately  after  felt  the  safer  and  .  better 
for  it.  Sally  thought  the  Good  Lady 
would  have  gone  to  church  with  her,  if  she 
had  been  here  ;  and  she  wished  she  could 
let  her  know  that  Simpson  had  fulfilled  his 
promise  at  last.  Other  people  besides 
Sally  wished  they  could  let  the  Good 
Lady  know  how  they  were  going  on  ;  — 
how  frost  came  at  last,  in  January,  and 
stopped  the  fever  ;  —  how  families  who 
had  lived  crowded  together  now  spread 
themselves  into  the  empty  houses ;  and 
how  there  was  so  much  room  that  the 
worst  cottages  were  left  uninhabited,  or 
were  already  in  course  of  demolition,  to 
make  airy  spaces,  or  afford  sites  for  better 
dwellings ;  and  how  it  was  now  certain 
that  above  two  thirds  of  the  people  of 
Bleaburn  had  perished  in  the  fever,  or  by 
decline,  after  it.     But  they  did  not  think  of 


140  SICKNESS    AND    HEALTH    OF 

getting  any  l:)ocly  who  could  write  to  tell 
all  this  to  the  Good  Lady  :  nor  did  it  occur 
to  them  that  she  might  possibly  know  it 
all.  The  men  and  boys  collected  pretty 
spars  for  her ;  and  the  women  and  girls 
knitted  gloves  and  comforters,  and  made 
pincushions  for  her,  in  the  faith  that  they 
should  some  day  see  her  again.  Mean- 
while, they  talked  of  her  every  day. 


THE  PEOPLE  OF  BLEABURN.        141 


CHAPTER     IX. 


It  was  a  fine  spring  day  when  the  Good 
Lady  reappeared  at  Bleaburn.  There  she 
was,  perfectly  well,  and  glad  to  see  health 
on  so  many  of  the  faces  about  her.  Some 
were  absent  whom  she  had  left  walking 
about  in  the  strength  of  their  prime  ;  but 
others  whom  she  had  last  seen  lying  help- 
less, like  living  skeletons,  were  now  on 
their  feet,  with  a  light  in  their  eyes,  and 
some  little  tinge  of  color  in  their  cheeks. 
There  were  sad  spectacles  to  be  seen  of 
premature  decrepitude,  of  dreadful  sores,  of 
deafness,  of  lameness,  left  by  the  fever. 
There  were  enough  of  these  to  have  sad- 
dened the  heart  of  any  stranger  entering 
Bleaburn  for  the  first  time,  but  to  Mary 
the  impression  was  that  of  a  place  risen 


142  SICKNESS    AND    HEALTH    OF 

from  the  dead.  There  was  much  grass  in 
the  churchyard,  and  none  in  the  streets  : 
the  windows  of  the  cottages  were  standing 
wide,  letting  it  be  seen  that  the  rooms 
were  whitewashed  within.  There  was  an 
indescribable  air  of  freshness  and  briglitness 
about  the  whole  place,  which  made  her  feel 
and  say  that  she  hardly  thought  the  fever 
could  harbor  there  again.  As  she  turned 
into  tlie  lane  leading  to  her  aunt's,  the 
sound  of  the  hammer  and  the  chipping  of 
stone  were  heard  ;  and  some  workmen 
whom  she  did  not  know  turned  from  their 
work  of  planing  boards,  to  see  why  a 
crowd  could  be  coming  round  the  corner. 
These  were  workmen  from  O ,  build- 
ing Neale's  new  cottages,  in  capital  style. 
And,  for  a  moment,  two  young  ladies  en- 
tering from  the  other  end  were  equally 
perplexed  as  to  what  the  extraordinary  bus- 
tle could  mean.  Their  mother,  however, 
understood  it  at  a  glance,  aiid  hastened  for- 
ward to  greet  the  (Jood  Lady,  sending  a 
boy  to  fetch  Mr.  Kirl>y  immediately.  Mrs. 
Kirby's    dryness    of    manner    broke    down 


THE  PEOPLE  OF  BLEABURN.        143 

altogether  when  she  introduced  her  daugh- 
ters to  Mary.  "  Let  them  say  they  have 
shaken  hands  with  you,"  said  she,  as  she 
herself  kissed  the  hand  she  held. 

It  was  not  easy  for  Mary  to  spare  a  hand, 
so  laden  was  she  with  pincushions  and  knit- 
ted wares ;  but  the  Kirbys  took  them  from 
her,  and  followed  in  her  train,  till  the  Wid- 
ow Johnson  appeared  on  her  threshold,  pale 
as  marble,  and  grave  as  a  monument,  but 
well,  and  able  to  hold  out  her  arms  to  Mary. 
Poor  Jem's  excitement  seemed  to  show  that 
he  was  aware  that  some  great  event  was 
happening.  His  habits  were  the  same  as 
before  his  illness,  and  he  had  no  peace  till 
he  had  shut  the  door  when  Mary  entered. 
Everybody  then  went  away  for  the  time; 
plenty  of  eyes,  however,  being  on  the  watch 
for  the  moment  when  the  Good  Lady  should 
be  visible  again. 

In  a  few  minutes,  the  movements  of  Jem's 
head  showed  his  mother  that,  as  she  said, 
something  was  coming.  Jem's  hearing  was 
uncommonly  acute  :  and  what  he  now  heard, 
and  what  other  people  heard  directly  after, 


144  SICKNESS    AND    HEALTH    OF 

was  a  drum  and  fife.  Neighbor  after  neigh- 
bor came  to  tell  the  Johnsons  what  their 
ears  had  told  them  already, —  that  there 
was  a  recruiting  party  in  Bleaburn  again; 
and  Jem  went  out,  attracted  by  the  music. 

"  It  is  like  the  candle  to  the  moth  to 
him,"  said  his  mother.  "  I  must  go  and 
sec  that  nol)ody  makes  sport  of  him,  or 
gives  him  drink." 

"Sit  still,  Aunty;  I  will  go.  And  there 
is  Warren der,  I  see,  and  Ann.  We  will 
take  care  of  Jem." 

And  so  they  did.  Ann  looked  so  mean- 
ingly at  Mary,  meantime,  as  to  make  Mary 
look  inquiringly  at  Ann. 

"Only,  ma'am,"  said  Ann,  "that  Sally 
Simpson  is  standing  yonder.  She  does  not 
like  to  come  forward,  but  I  know  she  would 
be  pleased." 

"Her  name  is  Simpson?  How  glad  I 
am  ho  has  married  her!  "  whispered  Mary, 
as  she  glanced  at  the  ring  which  Sally  was 
rather  striving  to  show.  "  I  hoj^e  you  are 
happy  atjast,  Sally." 

"Oh,  ma'am,  it  is  such  a  weight  gone  I 


THE  PEOPLE  OF  BLEABURN.        145 

And  I  do  try  to  make  him  happy  at  home, 
that  he  may  ngver  repent." 

Mary  thought  the  doubt  should  be  all 
the  other  way, — whether  the  wife  might 
not  be  the  most  likely  to  repent  having 
bound  herself  to  a  man  who  could  act  to- 
wards her  as  Simpson  had  done.  Widow 
Slaney  was  not  to  be  seen.  The  fife  and 
drum  had  sent  her  to  the  loft.  She  came 
down  to  see  Mary ;  but  her  agitation  was 
so  great,  that  it  would  have  been  cruelty  to 
stay.  They  heard  her  draw  the  bolt  as  they 
turned  from  the  door. 

"  She  does  not  like  seeing  Jack  Neale  any 
more  than  hearing  the  drum,"  observed  the 
host  of  the  Plough  and  Harrow,  who  had 
come  forth  to  invite  the  Good  Lady  in,  'to 
take  a  glass  of  something.'  "  That  is  Jack 
Neale,  ma'am ;  that  wooden-legged  young 
man.  He  is  .married,  though,  for  all  his  be- 
ing so  crippled.  The  young  woman  loved 
him  before  ;  and  she  loves  him  all  the  more 
now  ;  and  they  married  last  week,  and 
live  at  his  father's.  It  must  be  a  sad 
sight  to  his  father ;  but  he  says   no  word 

10 


146  SICKNESS   AND    HEALTH    OF 

about  it.     Better  not ;  for  Britons  must  be 
loyal.*' 

"And  why  not?"  said  the  doctor,  who 
had  hastened  in  from  the  brow,  on  seeing 
that  something  unusual  was  going  forward 
below,  and  had  ventured  to  offer  the  Good 
Lady  his  arrp,  as  he  thought  an  old  com- 
rade in  the  conllict  with  sickness  and  death 
might  do. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  said  the  doctor.  "  We 
make  grievous  complaints  of  the  fatality  of 
war;  and  it  is  sad  to  see  the  maiming  and 
hear  of  the  slaughter.  But  we  had  better 
spend  our  lamentations  on  a  fatality  that 
we  can  manage.  It  would  take  many  a 
battle  of  Albuera  to  mow  us  down,  and 
hurt  us  in  sense  and  limb,  as  the  fever  has 
done." 

"  Why,  that  is  true ! "  cried  some,  as  if 
struck  by  a  new  conviction. 

"  True,  yes,"  continued  the  doctor.  "  I 
don't  like  the  sight  of  a  recruiting  party  or 
the  sound  of  the  drum  much  better  than 
the  poor  woman  in  yonder  house,  who  will 
die  of  heart-break  after  all,  —  of  horror  and 


THE  PEOPLE  OF  BLEABURN.        147 

pining  for  her  son.  But  there  is  something 
that  I  like  still  less;  the  first  giddiness  and 
trembling  of  the  strong  man,  the  sinking 
feebleness  of  the  young  mother,  the  dim- 
ming of  the  infant's  eyes  ;  and  the  creeping 
fog  along  the  river-bank,  the  stench  in  the 
hot  weather,  and  the  damp  in  the  cold,  that 
tell  us  that  fever  has  lodged  among  us.  1 
know  then  that  we  shall  have,  many  times 
over,  the  slaughter  of  war,  without  any 
comfort  from  thoughts  of  glory  to  ourselves 
or  duty  to  our  country.  There  is  neither 
glory  nor  duty  in  dying  like  vermin  in  a 
ditch." 

"  I  don't  see,"  said  Warrender,  "  that  the 
sergeant  will  carry  off  any  of  our  young- 
sters now.  If  he  had  come  with  his  drum 
three  months  since,  some  might  have  gone 
with  him  to  get  away  from  the  fever,  as  a 
more  terrible  thing  than  war ;  but  at  pres- 
ent I  think  he  will  find  that  death  has  left 
us  no  young  men  to  spare." 

And  so  it  proved.  The  sergeant  and  his 
party  soon  marched  up  to  the  brow,  and 
disappeared,   delivering  the   prophecy   that 


148        SICKNESS    AND    HEALTH    OF    BLEABURN. 

Bleabum  would  now  lose  its  reputation  for 
eagerness  to  support  king  and  country. 
And  in  truth,  Bleabum  was  little  heard  of 
from  that  time  till  the  peace. 

Mary  ccjuld  not  stay  now.  She  had  been 
detained  very  long  from  home,  —  in  Amer- 
ica,—  and  somebody  was  waiting  very  im- 
patiently there  to  give  her  a  new  and  happy 
home.  This  is  said  as  if  we  were  speaking 
of  a  real  person,  —  and  so  we  are.  There 
was  such  a  Mary  Pickard;  and  what  she 
did  for  a  Yorkshire  village  in  a  season  of 
fever  is  true. 


THE    END. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 
LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 
This  booK  is^  ^^^  ^^^^  ^^  ^^.^^  renewed. 

Renewed  books  are  subject^o^mmedia^^ 


jy_94a4MVit5-i^ 


LD  21A-50m-8,'57 
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